Revelations
by usa123
Summary: Tony agrees to help his father after a misunderstanding puts Senior on the CIA's Most Wanted list. While dodging both the CIA & an infamous cartel, will Tony finally learn his father's true identity? Non-abusive Senior. AU. No slash/ships.
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer: Despite my best hopes that I will wake up as executive producer of NCIS (or perhaps related to the awesome Michael Weatherly), it hasn't happened yet. :(_

_The wonderful writers of NCIS haven't given us much information about Tony's past. I'm not sure when the "Tony was abused by his father" storyline became a canon detail of sorts, but I've never believed it was a true fact. Having said that, I acknowledge that Senior was universally absent throughout much of Tony's life, which begs the question, _why_? This is my spin on Senior's past and once you start thinking about it, it could actually make sense... (I guess we won't have to wait long to find out...it's the seventh episode of this season.) _

_Regardless if you believe this storyline or not, suspend your disbelief for a few moments and read this story with an open mind. It'll be a maze of mystery, intrigue and discovery with liberal doses of action and the all-important whumpage. It is Tony-centic but the entire team will be involved. So, without further ado, I present to you _Revelations.

_

* * *

_

A man walked out of a darkened building and squinted as the bright light assaulted his retinas. The streets were flooded with people pushing and shoving their way through the crowd like it was 0400 on Black Friday.

A door slammed inside the building, forcing the man into action. Shoving his fists into his jacket pocket to hide his bloodied knuckles, the man moved into the crowd, just another commuter in the big city. He shrugged deep into the collar of his 'borrowed' trench coat to avoid being recognized.

He heard a thick Italian accent shouting orders but refused to give himself away by turning around. Over the loud street sounds, the man discerned the Italian commanding his 'employees' to split up and not to return until their target was located. The target had had enough experience with law enforcement to understand "located" was a euphemism for captured, or in extreme circumstances, eliminated.

Pretending he had not heard the Italian, he continued to walk quickly and unobtrusively away from his captors.

He crossed the street in the middle of a large pack of briefcase-wielding lawyers, remaining hunched over to remain hidden among the shorter group.

"I have a visual!" The man turned his head slightly and spotted a young Italian heading directly toward him.

_Dammit. He'd been made. _

The man abandoned his cover and took off at a dead run, maneuvered his way through the crowd and leaving a trail of incensed workers in his wake.

In the near distance, he spied the tall spire of the local library. Over the last few years libraries had raised security to ensure patrons weren't stealing books; fortunately, said security usually included metal detectors. A safehouse it was not, but this makeshift sanctuary would have to do—at least until he could get a hold of his handler.

He adjusted his course, slowing as the pounding footsteps faded away. He continued at a brisk pace, occasionally checking over his shoulder for signs of a tail, but no one had been following him since he'd turned the last corner.

He had escaped, but his high speed chase was not without consequences: discarding the miscellaneous bruising, he was as winded as a marathon runner at the finish line and his joints were throbbing, especially his right knee. It was an injury he had obtained in his glory days that continued to plague him in high stress, high impact situations like this one. _When had just losing a tail become so damn difficult? _

But he couldn't stop to rest now—he had to get to the library.

He increased his pace slightly, but not fast enough to stand out from the rest of the commuters. Within minutes, he was ascending the marble staircase of the city's oldest library, ignoring the shooting pains in his knee.

He breathed a sigh of relief as he passed through the metal detectors. His relief, however, was fleeting as he saw the lanky Italian (who resembled Gumby, and would be now be nicknamed as such) pause by a trash can. In the reflection off the sparkling glass window, the man saw sunlight glint off a metal object as Gumby threw it into the receptacle. The man's extensive firearms training allowed him to recognize the weapon as a .45 Colt.

He tore his eyes away from Gumby and approached the nearest librarian.

"Excuse me, miss," he said, fixing the elderly woman with his most charming smile. "Could you please direct me to the nearest restroom?"

The librarian blushed visibly, clearly not accustom to the suaveness of this particular gentleman. She motioned off to the right and hastily returned to stamping the books in front of her.

"Thank you," the man replied, giving the woman a grateful grin as he dashed away.

He entered the bathroom and immediately bent over searching for shoes or any other indication that the room had other occupants. The man saw only one pair of feet at the far end of the stalls. Straightening up, the man marched hurriedly toward the far wall, knowing he had only a few short minutes before Gumby entered.

He pounded on the stall's flimsy door.

"You need to go," he commanded. "Now!"

"Who the _hell_ do you think you are, giving me orders?" a strong voice boomed from inside the stall.

"It's an emergency! I'm giving you three seconds before I kick down this door and drag your sorry hide out of there."

It was silent for a moment before a flushing noise was heard followed by a rapid zipping. A very angry man emerged, a hastily folded newspaper under one arm. He headed for the sink while shooting dirty looks at his unwelcome interruption in the mirror.

"No time!" The man grabbed the back of the cheap jacket, dragged the patron toward the door, and practically threw him out of the room.

"You son of a—" the upset man began but the door slammed shut, cutting off the rest of his curse.

"Sorry," the man replied under his breath as he walked toward the far stall and hauled himself onto the toilet seat, waiting for his pursuer to enter.

Not half a minute later, Gumby kicked open the bathroom door, tightly pressing himself against the bathroom wall. When no gunfire was heard, he cautiously peeked around the corner.

The young man decided it was safe and entered the room, immediately bending down to see if he could spot his target's expensive Armani shoes. He straightened and began systematically throwing open the stall doors.

Standing on the toilet seat, the target waited until he heard the stall next to his being searched. He waited less than ten seconds before he grabbed the top of the stall and kicked open the door.

Gumby grunted as the door slammed into him and knocked the wind out of him. The target hopped off the toilet and hustled over to the fallen Italian.

Just as Gumby's eyes fluttered open, the target grabbed the back of the man's tailored suit and threw him into the bank of sinks. Gumby's head collided with the porcelain and he collapsed to the floor, bleeding freely from a gash above his left eye.

The conscious man grabbed his pursuer's lapels and towed him into the last stall before locking the door from the outside.

_Yep, _he thought, waggling his long fingers happily, _he still had it_.

He paused for a moment in front of the mirror to straighten his tie. His eyes widened and he bent closer to the mirror as he discovered his hairline was father back than it had been a few months ago. Frowning, he ran a hand through the mess in an attempt to make himself look more presentable—and to hide his increasing widow's peak.

He exited the lavatory in search of a cell phone. He casually collided with a young woman standing by the information desk, his fingers deftly lifting her smart phone.

He located a study room in an abandoned section of the library. After securing the door, he sat in the only chair and dialed the number he'd committed to memory long ago.

"71730 for Hendricks."

"Eastwood?" a gruff voice barked over the line.

"In the flesh," 'Eastwood' replied with a grin.

"What the _hell_ were you thinking? Your little stunt back there compromised the integrity of the entire mission! It'll take months to get another operative that close! Leaving with Thompson was a rookie mistake that's going to cost you—big time."

Hendricks stopped and took a deep breath before continuing in a softer tone. "The FBI's breathing down our neck for jurisdiction and Jamison just decided to grant it."

"I think there's been a misunderstanding, sir—" the operative began.

"No misunderstanding. Everyone in the command center saw what happened."

"Nothing happened," 'Eastwood' insisted. "I followed my instructions to the letter, never broke cover."

"I honestly don't know what to think right now. I've seen the video and it's pretty damning evidence."

"Just give me a chance—let me come in and explain. I'm sure I can explain…"

"Don't do that Eastwood. The Chiefs are in a big meeting right now deciding how to handle you—for the time being, you've been suspended. I probably shouldn't have told you that but after all these years, I feel I owe you something. I repeat: Do not come in. Get the hell out of Dodge and lay low for as long as possible. Take a trip maybe—I hear Brazil's wonderful this time of year—until the heat dies down."

"I can't do that," 'Eastwood' repeated. "Someone set me up and I'm going to find out whom."

"I hope you do. You're one of our best."

"Thanks Hendricks. Tell that to the review committee."

"I'll do my best. You need to get going—I'm sure they're tracing this call."

"D'ya think, Hendricks?" The recently disavowed man couldn't help remarking snidely.

"Good bye Eastwood. And good luck—you're going to need it."

'Eastwood' left the library discarding the phone in the book return slot. He kept a watchful eye for tails all the way to a dilapidated hotel at the edge of the city that did not even provide free cable.

He requested the room at the far end of the building, closest to the emergency exit. As soon as he entered the sparsely furnished room, 'Eastwood' immediately swept for bugs or other listening devices. Finding none, he plopped down on the bed, ignoring the cloud of dust that rose. He pulled out the phone he had snagged from the night clerk and dialed the operator.

"Collect call to Anthony DiNozzo Junior. Washington, D.C."

"May I ask who's calling?" the operator asked with a bored sigh.

"His father," Anthony DiNozzo Senior answered. "Tell him it's a matter of life and death."

* * *

_And so begins Revelations! Again, it WILL be Tony-centric but I just couldn't find a decent segue into this story from Tony's point of view. Fear not! Our favorite NCIS agent makes his first appearance in the next chapter...and every succeeding chapter as well! :)_

_Thanks for reading! Reviews appreciated!  
_


	2. Chapter 2

_Thanks to all who reviewed, alerted or favorited _Revelations. _Your support for this story is unbelievable!_

Worst Nightmare_ premieres tonight, complete with NCIS trainees and a Gibbs-slap! I hope you all are as excited as I am!_

* * *

A shrill ringing pulled Tony out of an incredible dream involving a smoking hot, scantily clad coed and a red 1980 GTS Ferarri. He slapped his nightstand in search of his phone while attempting to focus on the blurry numbers on his digital clock.

"Hullo," Tony drawled, his voice thick with sleep.

"Collect call from quote your father. It's a matter of life or death unquote. Will you accept?"

"I guess," Tony sighed heavily, mourning the vivid dream that was quickly fading. Damn his father for ruining his childhood and now interrupting his first full night of sleep in over a week. If this was about how he'd footed Senior's bill at the Adams House Hotel or some stupid misunderstanding at the bank, Tony would borrow a patented move from Gibbs and drown his phone in bourbon. He was starting to understand why his boss acted the way he did toward the devices…

"Junior," his father's cheery voice came on, interrupting Tony's reverie.

"What do you want, dad?" Tony groaned.

"Can't a father just call his son to catch up?"

"Not at—" Tony paused to squint at the alarm clock again. "2:30 in the morning. I have to be up for work in four hours."

"But tomorrow's Saturday!"

"Yes, we drew the weekend shift. It's a fact of life for those who actually work for a living," Tony returned without an ounce of regret for his harsh words. "Now, dad, I really need some sleep since Gibbs will either shoot me or send me to train a Probie if I show up without any. So: What. Do. You. Want?"

The line was quiet for a moment before Senior finally replied, "I need your help Junior."

Tony snorted in disbelief; he could count the times his father had asked for _his _help on his thumbs. Then sobering thought struck him.

"You're not in jail are you?" Tony didn't wait for Senior's response before continuing. "And you used your one phone call to call me? That's touching, dad—didn't know we had that kind of relationship—but I'm sure the family lawyer could do a much better job of posting your bail. In case you've forgotten, I work for the government and they're not exactly rolling in the dough…"

"No, no, Junior. I am not in jail," Senior replied, genuine surprise evident in his voice. "Whatever gave you that idea?"

"I don't know, dad. Maybe the god-awful hour or the 'life or death' line you fed the operator. You choose."

"Well, Junior, that is not the case. My last run-in with law enforcement was my last visit to NCIS…but I _am_ in a jam and could use a little assistance."

"One, it's a three hour flight to Long Island. And two, that's what the local police are for, not that you've ever trusted anyone on the force."

"Junior." DiNozzo Senior's voice was dangerously low. "I am asking for your help. I know you know it is extremely difficult for me to be making this phone call. Don't make me beg."

"Dad, it's a long flight, I'm going to have to miss work, and I won't be able to do anything the police can't."

"Please Junior—do this little favor for dear old dad. I'll cover the plane ticket if that helps…"

"No. That's not it," Tony responded with a heavy sigh. As much as he hated growing up without any real parents, Senior _was_ his father. He'd give the situation a quick look-see and decide what to do after his father had come clean about the whole matter.

"How long is this 'favor' going to take?"

"Not really sure, son. I've really stepped in it this time."

"Greaaattt," Tony drew out the word as he considered his options. He released another mournful sigh before throwing off his comforter and sitting up in bed. "I'll book the next flight to Long Island and I'll call you when—"

"No! You can't!" Senior's voice shouted frantically. After a short pause to collect himself, DiNozzo Senior continued much more calmly. "I mean, you can't use this number. I'll meet you at the airport, okay?"

"I'm agreeing to help you out, Dad, but there are some ground rules. If I get up there and find your cat's stuck in a tree or Miss Greenly with the warty hands and cheek-pinching obsession asked you to be the sole beneficiary of her will or if you're getting married again and staged this elaborate rouse to have me attend, I'll…" Tony paused, unable to think of a suitable threat for his father. "Well, I don't know exactly what I'll do, but it won't be pretty. Something on par with a windowless Shady Pines nursing home staffed by ugly male nurses won't be out of the picture."

"Junior, you know I wouldn't be calling if it weren't serious."

"That's what I'm afraid of."

Realizing the conversation was over, Tony moved to hang up the phone.

"Oh, Anthony?" Senior interrupted.

"What now, dad?"

"Happy birthday, son. Did you get the package I sent you? I had it airmailed so it'd arrive on time."

"Not yet dad. I'll see you in a few hours," Tony affirmed as he disconnected the call.

Tony stared at the phone in his hand, reviewing the conversation he'd just had with his father while resisting the urge to shriek in aggravation. What the hell was he doing? His father was a con-man who'd probably slept with the wrong man's wife or taken money from the wrong family. Plus, he was going to have to call in sick to work and _what_ in the world was he going to tell Gibbs? The obvious tension between the Lead Agent and his father, including the territorial glares that had passed between them, had not gone unnoticed by Tony, proving his detective's badge hadn't just been for show.

Why couldn't he have been born to a nice, normal couple who lived in the suburbs, made $70,000 a year honestly and had 2.4 kids to drive to soccer practice and ballet lessons? Noooo! He gets the conman and the loving mother who died at age 35 from an incurable heart condition. He must have done something pretty bad in a former life to piss off the power that be this much…

He pulled on an old OSU football T-shirt and headed to the living room where he booted up his ancient desktop computer. The machine made a horrible grinding noise before the fan popped free and began spinning madly.

"Yeah, yeah. Trust me. I don't want to be up either," Tony confided to the computer.

He stared warily at his cell phone, knowing he was going to have to call Gibbs eventually. He decided to wait until five o'clock; surely, the Marine would be up by then, hard at work sanding or sawing some part of his new boat.

Tony spent the next half hour booking a one-way ticket from Baltimore Washington International to Long Island that left at six before shutting down the stuttering machine and setting off to pack an overnight bag. While he gathered his belongings, he considered what exactly he was going to tell Gibbs. It was probably best to leave his father's name out of the conversation, though Tony had no doubt Gibbs would figure it out eventually and head-slap him into oblivion for not telling him straight away. Hopefully, Senior's problem could be resolved before Monday so Tony wouldn't have to miss another day of work and earn even more suspicion from Gibbs. But then again, when had anything involving his father been 'easy' or 'simple'?

Fully packed with a half-hour to spare, Tony grabbed an open box of Cap'n Crunch and plopped down in front of the television in time to catch the last moments of the Peter Weir's _Gallipoli _on the History Channel, staring in shock at the parting shot of Mel Gibson's bullet-ridden body that remained suspended in mid-air as the credits rolled.

While Tony reviewed the other movies Weir had directed, he fed his two goldfish (Rick and T.C.), grabbed his duffel bag, badge, SIG and back-up ankle holster, and drove the twenty minutes from his apartment to BWI airport overnight parking lot.

_They'd better wrap this up quickly,_ Tony thought as the attendant handed him his receipt with the exorbitant overnight parking rate circled in red. It was costing about a day's salary just to park his car for one night.

He passed uneventfully through security and located his departure gate. Sitting in an empty bank of chairs, he pulled out his cell phone and dialed the familiar number. While his thumb hovered over the Send key, he briefly considered not calling, but decided that would be much worse in the long-run.

_Man up! _Tony mentally chided himself. _It's a thirty second conversation with your boss! How bad could it be? _He gulped as a variety of unpleasant scenarios flashed through his head, most involving death by hand tools, bourbon toxicity or crushed under an unending mound of paperwork.

He took a deep breath and punched the green button.

"Gibbs."

"Hey boss. How are you?" Tony asked as cheerily as possible.

Gibbs exhaled loudly on the other end of the line. "What's wrong DiNozzo?"

"Why does something always have to be wrong? Can't I just call to ask how your boat's coming?" Even as he said the words, Tony was struck by the remarkable similarities between the start of the conversation and the one he'd had earlier with his father.

"Not at 5 A.M."

"That's very true, boss. I didn't wake you did I?" Tony cringed as the words left his mouth. Why was he stalling? How hard was it to tell Gibbs he needed the day off?

Gibbs didn't respond.

"Didn't think so."

"There a point to this call?" Gibbs asked gruffly.

"Yeah, boss. Um…I kinda need the day off—"

"What hospital?" Gibbs questioned, reaching for his wallet and keys on a nearby sawhorse.

"What? No! No, no, no, no, no! I'm not in the hospital. Why would you think that?"

"Maybe because it's five o'clock in the morning."

"Well, I'm not hurt—in fact, I've never felt better. I've just got…a family problem to deal with—just found out about it. But, with luck, it shouldn't take too long to wrap up…" Tony trailed off, awaiting Gibbs' response.

"You need backup?"

Tony couldn't help chuckling. "No, boss. It's not that kind of problem—at least, I hope not. I should be back by Monday. It's kinda short notice though and Vance is probably going to suspend me for not filing the paperwork with Human Resources last week."

"I'll deal with him. You just take care of your 'problem'," Gibbs responded, using the word loosely, "and be back here at 0700 Monday."

"Thanks, boss."

"I expect sit-reps every six hours until you're back in D.C."

"Boss, I really don't think that's—"

"Not a request, DiNozzo."

"Okay then. Sit-reps every six hours. I can manage that."

"Be careful DiNozzo. Watch your six."

"Will do, boss." Tony replied as he hung up the phone.

Gibbs put the cell phone back on the sawhorse and returned to sanding his boat. He knew there was only one family member Tony would stick out his neck for. Gibbs despised Senior for throwing his life away and treating his son as he did. The man didn't realize how incredibly lucky he was to have such a bright and witty son only a phone call away. Even though Tony mentioned very little about his past, Gibbs also knew DiNozzo Senior crossed path with some shady people who weren't going to be satisfied with resolving their problems over a cup of tea.

Despite the rapid churning in his gut, Gibbs knew he had no right to demand that Tony stay in D.C. But, if Tony was even one minute late in reporting, Gibbs would drive to Long Island to deal with Senior's problem _his _way.

And he could guarantee that way was not going to end well for DiNozzo Senior.

* * *

_Gibbs knows something is hinky but does he choose to do anything about it? What will happen when Tony arrives at the airport? As the action picks up, will Senior reveal the truth to Tony immediately or will he sugarcoat his involvement until he is left with no other options?_

_Thanks for reading! Drop me a line and let me know what you think! :)_


	3. Chapter 3

_Thanks for your wonderful support for this story! A full Inbox makes for a happy writer! :)_

_

* * *

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The modern security measures taken to prevent terrorism left little to do on the semi-long flight: no meals, no movies, and no food unless the miniscule bag of peanuts and small soda could be considered a meal.

With nothing to do but sit and wait, Tony reclined his seat and let his mind wander.

What trouble had Senior gotten himself into this time? There was the mundane affair with a married woman and illegal money transfers, but then there was the possibility that Omar Ibn Alwaan had discovered Senior's true profession and was making threats again his life or, more importantly, his name. As Tony had been told time and time again by his grandfather, DiNozzo and wealth were meant to be spoken in the same sentence like Betty Grable and movies, Thomas Edison and the light bulb and Sammy Sosa and baseball. No one that tarnished the DiNozzo reputation remained an heir for longer than a few months after the incident, and while Tony was financially secure, he knew his father was not.

He again wondered if his father was ever as well-off as the rest of the family had thought. His mother, bless her soul, had come from money as well and her substantial trust fund had probably buffered the difference between the real balance and the pretend one. He knew his mother wasn't perfect—her drinking became a major problem after she learned about her heart condition—but she had always loved him deeply and had made sure he knew it.

She had a Louis XV obsession and had decorated Tony's room accordingly, canopy bed included. It was very creepy for a while, but he'd grown to enjoy it when he discovered his friends thought it was the best room for exchanging ghost stories. He still wasn't over the whole sailor outfit thing, but it had made his mother happy so he had grudgingly put up with it. He had always loved playing the piano despite the creepy Miss Larkin who used to slap his knuckles with a ruler whenever he made a mistake; he had especially enjoyed the times when his mother would sit next to him on the massive piano bench and coach him through his exercises and lessons.

One incident that he had never forgotten was the day when she had accidentally drank his sea monkeys. Diana, the best housekeeper/babysitter on the planet, had reassured a distraught boy that it was the drugs his mother was taking that caused her to act this way and that she would be very upset when she realized what she had done. Within the week, the sea monkeys had been replaced, but his mother had never spoken about it.

While Tony had pretended to ignore the similarities between Carson Taylor and himself during the case, privately he would have to admit that they had even more in common than anyone on the team could imagine. In his father's frequent absences, he and his mother would curl up on the couch together and watch movies until Tony had fallen asleep. Those times were a welcome reprieve from the days with Senior which were divided between filling his father's drinks (Macallan 18: three fingers, one ice cube) and reporting about his day.

Then his mother had gotten sicker and spent increasing amounts of time in the hospital. The few times she was home, she was too weak to spend much time with her son, but there were those few moments he could catch with her while she was lucid, when he'd crawl into her massive bed, snuggle in close and listen to stories about her travels to Paris and London.

One story little Tony had never heard though was how she and his father had met. His mother had promised to tell him when he was old enough and though he begged and pleaded that ten years old was mature enough, she had refused and the story had died with her. He had asked his father only once after his mother had died about how they had met but Senior's face had adopted such a vicious yet deeply hurt expression that little Tony instinctively knew never to ask again. As he'd gotten older, he'd asked his family, but no one, even Uncle Clive, the renowned family gossip, seemed to know how the two had meet.

His father was never abusive contrary to popular belief. The few times Senior had ever laid a hand on Tony were few and far between, never in anger or in a drunken stupor and never without a reason. Tony still remembered the shock and disappointment on his father's face when he saw his $3000 ski suit turned into the most popular astronaut costume on the block. Even his mother had sat down with Tony afterwards—or rather, she had sat and he stood—to have a 'grown-up' talk about the importance of daddy's clothes while she comforted her strong, dry-eyed boy. While Tony had thought that was the worst possible punishment, it wasn't long after he became a cop that he realized just how lucky he had truly been in his youth. After McGee discovered Senior's nonexistent savings account, Tony understood why Senior had been so upset—it's hard to charm royalty in off-the-rack jeans and plaid shirts.

After his wife's death, Senior appeared even less in Tony's life. Between various boarding schools, the Rhode Island Military Academy, and five summers Camp Pokequatic, Tony saw his father only once at Christmas and once during each summer for a "wild" vacation. At twelve, his father appeared for the time in six months and took him to Maui where little Tony had been left alone in the room. A very distracted Senior had returned after two days and hustled his son back to Long Island where he made arrangements for Carla to look after Tony before leaving within the next few hours. His father had never once mentioned the bill, but Tony had a feeling it was still a bone of contention between the two of them.

At that moment, the flight attendant came over the PA, announced their arrival into Long Island and asked the passengers to prepare for landing.

_What have you gotten yourself into, Dad? _ Tony wondered as the plane's wheels connected with the tarmac.

_And is there anything I can do to fix it?_

* * *

"McGee, have you heard from Tony?" Ziva asked as she eyed her partner's empty desk. Do not be mistaken: for a while, it had been nice to not have their daily lives likened to a movie or not be pelted by paper wads or rubber bands, but with each passing minute, Tony's absence became increasingly worrisome.

"It's 7:30 on a Saturday, Ziva. We should be lucky he gets here before ten." McGee hesitated for a second before continuing. "He didn't mention—"

"Not to me."

"Spring Break's not until April and I haven't heard of Tony having a date since the Brenda Bitzer debacle."

"I remember that!" Ziva interrupted, her eyes flashing as she remembered the incident. "Didn't she—"

"Key his new Mustang? Yup. And apparently it was a pretty pricey repair job…"

"He did not tell me about it," Ziva said quietly, feeling unusually hurt that her partner had not confided in her.

"Me either," McGee confessed. "Abby overheard his phone conversation with the detailer and told me _after _Palmer and Reyes in Evidence Lock-Up."

There was long silence while the two stared at their partner's empty desk.

"It is not like him to be this late," Ziva spoke up. "And Gibbs is not here either. You don't suppose…"

"Nah. The Director would have told us by now if Gibbs and Tony were on assignment…right?"

"You would know," Ziva teased. "You are the director's brown boy, are you not?"

"I think you mean _golden boy_, and no, I am not."

"Tony seems to think so," Ziva stated bluntly as the elevator dinged and Gibbs marched into the squad room with his customary cup of coffee in hand.

"Boss, have you heard from Tony?" McGee asked, rising slightly from his seat in anticipation.

"He's taking the day off," Gibbs replied succinctly as he sat behind his desk and immediately began rifling through the paperwork on his desk.

"He never takes the day off…he's not sick is he?" McGee questioned, a tone of concern creeping into his voice.

"That was I said, McGee?" Gibbs asked as he turned slightly and fixed the young agent with an even stare.

"Well, you really didn't specify…" McGee retreated as Gibbs intensified his glare. "Nope. Not what you said at all."

"He _is _all right, though?" Ziva ventured.

"DiNozzo's fine. But you two won't be if you don't get back to work!"

McGee walked over to Gibbs' desk and dropped a thick file onto it.

"My report for the Higley case."

"Mine as well," Ziva added as she placed her file on McGee's.

They remained standing around Gibbs' desk as the Lead Agent flipped through the reports.

"What are you waiting for? A promotion?" Gibbs snapped, looking up to see both his agents still hovering around his desk.

"Where is Tony, Gibbs?" Ziva asked softly.

Gibbs exhaled loudly and pinched the bridge of his nose with two fingers. "He's dealing with a family matter."

"Not his father?" McGee asked in disbelief.

"That would be my guess." Gibbs lapsed into silence as he weighed what Tony had confided with what he knew about Senior. After an prolonged internal debate, Gibbs decided to follow his gut: Tony was too valuable an agent and too loyal a friend to have to deal with this alone.

"McGee!" Gibbs demanded.

"GPS tracker on Tony's cell and run all phone records and credit card receipts for the past week. Got it!"

"Ziva!"

"I will call my contacts see with whom Senior has been interacting over the last few months."

Gibbs observed the Ziva conversing with a foreign diplomat in Arabic and McGee typing furiously at his computer and wondered how DiNozzo managed to bring out these protective feelings in everyone he met. With a shake of his head and a small grin, Gibbs headed to Abby's lab to find out what the Goth knew about the DiNozzo situation.

* * *

As Tony deplaned, he cast an eye over the crowd in search of his father. He had no need to follow the crowds to the baggage claim since ten years with Gibbs had taught him to pack light. Bringing an additional suitcase was a Probie mistake. In fact, there might even have been a rule against it—one of those ones in the thirties that were rarely used after the first few months as an agent.

He began walking idly toward the exits, hoping to catch a glimpse of Senior, but the older man was nowhere in sight. As he passed an Employee Only door, a pair of hands reached out, grabbed the back of his OSU shirt, and pulled him into the darkened room.

Caught by surprise, Tony crouched down and pulled his gun, pointing it in the culprit's general direction.

"Federal Agent. Give yourself up now, and no one will get hurt," Tony informed the darkness.

Suddenly, the lights flickered on and Tony scanned the room for his abductor.

"Jesus, Junior! You weren't really going to use that were you?" DiNozzo Senior asked cautiously, motioning toward the SIG. "Those things are dangerous!"

"I know, dad. That's why you need a license to carry one," Tony huffed impatiently. "And what the hell were you thinking, pulling me into a dark room? I could have shot you dead."

"It's a good thing you didn't," Senior replied with a grin. "I've got quite a few more items on my bucket list."

"Well, you're no Nicholson or Freeman, that's for sure." As Tony holstered his weapon, he noticed the dark bruising on his father's cheekbone.

"What happened to you?" he asked as he stepped forward to better examine the injury.

"It's a long story that we really don't have time for right now."

Tony opened his mouth to protest but was cut-off by Senior. "I promise I'll tell you later, but we're in danger here. We need to get going before they find us."

"Who's they?"

"The bad guys," Senior deadpanned as he poked his head out of the door.

"Coast's clear," he announced after a moment, motioning Tony forward with a dramatic wave. "Let's move out."

"You sure you were never in the Armed Forces?" Tony clarified as he followed Senior out of the room. "You'd've made a damn fine DI."

Senior froze and spun around to face his son. "You may be an adult now, but I am still your father and I will _not_ tolerate such language."

"Nope," Tony muttered as his father resumed his breakneck pace, "never would have made it past boot camp."

"What was that, Anthony?" Senior asked sternly without missing a step.

"Nothing, dad." Tony hustled to catch up with his father, noticing how the older man was constantly checking behind them as if searching for a tail.

"You expecting company?"

"Never hurts to be prepared," Senior replied as they entered the parking garage.

"Okay. I'll bite," Tony began after another extended silence, undeterred by Senior's deflections. "_Who's _following us? A jealous husband, an ex-wife, the NSA or Vito Corleone?"

"None of the above."

"Fantastic." As he spoke, Tony scanned the lot looking for his father's favored car, well aware of his father's financial state. "Where's the Lamborghini?"

"I sold it," Senior replied succinctly, heading toward a mundane Ford Explorer.

_Got you now, old man_, Tony thought triumphantly. _That's as good as a confession._

"Waiting for the new model that comes out next month," Senior continued.

_Damn, his father was smooth—didn't miss a trick. No wonder people were so easily conned by him._

Senior lobbed the keys over the car with a simple "You drive."

"Yes, sir," Tony responded obediently as he plucked the keys from the air and unlocked the car.

"The 21 Motel. 5th and Park."

"You sure, dad? Why can't we just go to the house?"

"It's been compromised."

"_It's been compromised_," Tony mimicked. "Jeez, dad. You're making this sound like a James Bond film. The Connery version, of course. Not that Brosnan and Lazerby weren't bad—"

Tony abruptly stopped as Senior reached over and smacked the back of his head.

"What. Was. That. For?" Tony hissed, his joking demeanor completely gone.

"I saw Gibbs do that when you need to focus. You don't approve?"

"No, dad—not from you. Gibbs is the only one with my permission to head-slap me when I'm out of line. You? Not so much. If you _ever_ do that again, I _will_ shoot you, blood relative or not. Clear?"

"Crystal." Senior sat quietly while he considered what had just happened. "I _am_ sorry Junior. I had no idea you felt that way."

"Well, maybe you would if you'd bothered to call more than twice a decade."

"I always sent you presents around the holidays and never forgot your birthday."

"Yes, but I don't build or sand or saw anything. On my days off, I go home and watch movies," Tony exasperated as he switched lanes, ignoring the blaring car horns and screeching brakes.

"Well, Junior, now I know. Have you seen the new _Underworld _flick yet? I hear it's the best of the—"

"Enough small talk, dad," Tony interrupted as he switched lanes again to more skidding and swearing. "What are you into?"

"Well, Junior, I was saving this conversation for the hotel, but I guess now will do. There's something you don't know about me. I—"

Senior's explanation was cut-off as the black SUV behind them increased its speed until it was almost touching the Ford's bumper.

Tony saw the light glint off a gun sticking out of the passenger's side window.

"Get down, dad!" Tony shouted as he spun the wheel to the right. The Ford traveled across the remaining two lanes of traffic toward the exit ramp as a bullet shattered the back window and lodged itself in the dashboard.

The SUV sped up and crossed into the lane next to theirs. Without warning, it smashed into the smaller car and sent it fishtailing into the guide rail. He was gripping the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles were turning white, somehow managing to bring the car out of its skid.

"Hold on!" Tony gritted his teeth and stomped on the gas. The next exit was in a quarter-mile. If he could just keep the car straight for that long, they'd be in the clear. No one knew the side streets of Long Island better than an adventurous young boy who had far too much free time on his hands.

But that was an entire half-mile. If McGenius were here, he could probably have calculated the number of feet they would need to travel until the exit…The odds of them arriving safely at the exit were slim to none, but then again, when had Tony ever bought into the odds?

"Give me your gun, Junior," Senior commanded.

"Are you outta your mind? There's no way in hell—"

Before Tony could release the steering wheel to deflect his father's reach, Senior had grabbed the SIG and fired it at the SUV that was quickly approaching from behind.

"Dad, put it down before you shoot yourself—or, more importantly, me!" Tony demanded without removing his eyes from the road.

"Just drive, Junior. I've had a great deal of practice with this particular weapon." His voice softened and took on a pleading tone. "Trust me Anthony."

"Fine," Tony glared at the road, unable to give his father his look of displeasure. "But if you shoot yourself, you're covering the medical expenses without my help."

"So be it," Senior replied before taking aim at the SUV's tires and firing twice. One hit the left front tire and the other put a hole in the SUV's main frame above the right tire.

"Where did you learn to shoot?" Tony asked incredulously as he observed the shots in his rearview mirror.

"That's part of the long story…" Senior trailed off as he observed the SUV swerving wildly. The driver apparently decided to finish the job, shredded tire or not, for the SUV accelerated one final time and crashed into the Explorer at seventy miles an hour.

The Ford swerved to the right, oblivious to Tony's attempts to straighten out its path, smashing through the guard rail as if it were made of breakaway tape, and careened off the road onto an undeveloped patch of land. Tony saw the imminent collision with a large metal signpost and slammed on the brakes, but the pedal slid uselessly to the floor.

Tony fought the sharp pull of the car until the very last second, but, despite his best efforts, the Ford crashed into the large metal sign, screeching to a halt with its girder rightly woven into the sign post.

_Gibbs was going to kill him_ was Tony's final thought as the airbag exploded directly in his face and darkness consumed him.

* * *

_The DiNozzo's are in some deep trouble now, aren't they? And yes, the background in the beginning of the chapter has a purpose, in case you were wondering. It will be referenced in a later chapter over some serious Father/Son discussion…_

_Thanks for reading! Let me know what you think of the latest developments!_


	4. Chapter 4

_NCIS tomorrow! Tony as the poster boy for NCIS? Fornell staying at Gibbs'? I absolutely cannot wait!_

_

* * *

_Tony was thrown back into consciousness as rough hands grabbed his shoulders and pulled him the battered car. Through a haze, Tony saw his father slumped over his airbag, still unconscious, and the SUV's passenger puncturing the passenger side airbag with a long knife.

Adrenaline flooded his system and cleared the fog from his vision. He swung into action, pushing against the Explorer with his feet while throwing himself backward. The move caught the SUV driver by surprise and the two fell to the ground. Tony landed hard on his opponent, leaving the driver sputtering for air.

At the loud crashing noise, the SUV's passenger abandoned DiNozzo Senior and headed toward his partner. Tony jumped to his feet and assumed a defensive posture as he saw the other assailant approach. The stocky, well-build passenger stopped just out of Tony's reach and raised his fists, ready to fight.

_That is definitely a Red Light offense, _Tony thought as he followed the passenger gave him the once over and smiled evilly. Clearly, the man was looking forward to a fight.

"You don't have to do this," Tony informed the man as they circled each other, not wanting to make the first move. "You and your friend could just walk away now and we'll forget about the whole thing."

"Yeah? And pigs fly," the passenger scoffed. "We've orders to bring you to our boss."

"You do everything your boss tells you?"

The passenger nodded in response.

"That's gotta get old, doesn't it? Always following orders? When are you going to make decisions for yourself—do what's best for you?"

"I _am _doing what's best for me," the man returned. "I'm gonna follow boss' orders so I make it to retirement."

Behind the passenger who Tony had nicknamed Jaws after his shark-like smile, the Italian saw the driver, who he aptly nicknamed Sandor, get to his feet and knew he had to act quickly.

Tony faked with his left and threw his best right-cross, but Jaws leaned to the side and reacted with a sharp jab to Tony's stomach. The NCIS agent danced out of the way mere seconds before the blow landed, but didn't see Jaws' fist heading toward his face until the last second. The car wreck clearly dulled his reaction time for Tony was only able to deflect part of the blow.

Stars danced in front of his vision as the fist grazed his jaw and snapped his head around. He stumbled backward, shaking his head viciously to rid his vision of the sunbursts, but managed to remain on his feet.

He looked up after a second and saw Sandor taking his place on Tony's other side. The Agent quickly backpedaled to keep both men in sight while he ran through a variety of plans in his head. Before he had time to enact any of them, Sandor stepped forward, his hand raised above his head.

_Gibbs would have had a field day with this guy in the boxing ring,_ Tony thought with a small grin as the man closed the distance between them. _He was incredibly easy to read._

Tony saw the left hook coming almost before Sandor threw his punch and neatly shuffled out of the way. As Sandor stumbled forward, clearly off-balance, Tony grabbed the extended arm and threw the man forward in a modified judo throw.

As he spun around to deal with Jaws, the man came up behind Tony, grabbed the back of his shirt and threw him into the car. Tony had just enough time to duck his head to avoid a concussion as he slammed into the metal door and pain exploded through his torso; he slid to the ground, dimly aware of his surroundings.

Seeing shoes approaching through his narrow vision, Tony gathered his remaining energy and threw himself at Jaws' knees, tackling his assailant to the ground. Though the man was flailing wildly, Tony managed to pin down Jaws' limbs in record time before landing a few solid punches to his opponent's jaw that would have made Mike Tyson proud.

As Jaws' eyes rolled back into his head, Tony heard heavy breathing behind him and turned to see Sandor's meaty paw headed his way. He put up his left arm to block the punch, biting back a cry of pain as intense agony lanced through his arm when he fully extended it. The injured arm did little to deflect the blow which caught him high on the cheekbone and knocking him to the ground.

While he fought to remain conscious, Tony felt Sandor grab the front of his shirt and haul him to his feet. He commanded his body to resist, but there appeared to be a gap between his brain and his spinal cord that was keeping his motor neurons from firing.

Once the agent was fully upright, Sandor threw him against the car, laughing as Tony staggered wildly to regain his balance. With a sadistic grin, Sandor drove a fist into Tony's stomach, knocking the gasping agent to his knees.

Again, Tony tried to force his body into action, but Sandor grabbed him by the hair and pulled him back to his feet. Jaws, who apparently recovered within the last minute, stepped behind Tony, grabbed his injured arm and twisted it painfully behind his back.

"You let go of him!" DiNozzo Senior cried, having finally regained consciousness. He pretended to fumble with the seatbelt while subtly sticking his son's SIG in the small of his back. He got out of the car and stood at the engine with his hands raised. "He's got nothing to do with this!"

Tony gasped as Jaws wretched his arm more tightly behind his back. He shifted slightly to loosen the tight vice, but Jaws jabbed a fist into his kidney, causing Tony's knees to buckle.

"Stop fighting. You'll only make things worse," Jaws hissed in his ear.

_Like hell I will_, Tony thought, choosing to temporarily remain still, despite the raw pain searing through his arm.

"It's your choice, DiNozzo," Sandor continued. "Tell me where Atlas is or he dies."

"I don't know what you're talking about! But release the boy and we can discuss it further…"

"Wrong answer." As Jaws hauled Tony upright, Sandor turned and punched the agent again in the stomach. Tony inhaled sharply as the dull ache in his gut escalated into shooting pains and he once again found himself fighting to bring air into his lungs.

"Would you like to try again?" Jaws sneered as he tightened his grip on the listing fed.

"I swear I would tell you if I knew what you were talking about! Just let my son go," DiNozzo Senior pleaded, lowering his hands so he could grab his gun more quickly when the time arose.

Sandor did not respond to Senior's plea, instead punching Tony squarely in the nose. As his blood gushed down his face, Tony tried again to escape, driving his pointy elbow into Jaws's gut with hope that the man would loosen his grip. Unfortunately, the goon barely reacted.

Releasing only a grunt, Jaws wrapped his other arm around Tony's neck, his elbow pressed tightly against Tony's trachea.

"You have about ten seconds before your son loses consciousness," Sandor informed Senior. "Now, tell us where Atlas is and you can save his life."

"I told you! I don't know what Atlas is!" Senior cried as Sandor raised a fist to hit his son again. He grabbed the gun from his waistband and shot Sandor in the shoulder. As the man crumpled to the ground unconscious, Senior turned and trained the gun on Jaws.

"Don't come any closer," Jaws warned, increasing the pressure on Tony's windpipe. The agent could feel his face reddening and was finding the simple act of breathing was becoming more and more difficult.

"Anthony." At the sound of his name, Tony focused his gaze on his father who raised his eyebrows almost imperceptibly. Or he was just hallucinating. But what did it matter at this point—he only had a few more seconds before he lost consciousness.

In a last ditch effort, Tony grabbed Jaws's arm with his good one, turned his head to the side and twisted out of the headlock. He dove for the ground as he recognized the sound of his SIG being cocked. The gun spat fire and Jaws released Tony's left arm as he crashed to the floor either unconscious or dead, and at that point, Tony didn't really care which option it was.

Tony fell to his hands and knees, coughing, gagging and sputtering for air while holding his left arm close to his chest. Still panting for breath, he looked up as he heard someone land heavily next to him.

"Are you okay, Anthony?" Senior asked as he put one arm protectively on Tony's back, his expression full of concern.

"Peachy," Tony wheezed as he pulled himself to his feet with Senior's help. He cursed as his knees buckled and he was forced to grab at his father's shoulder to keep himself from falling. Ignoring the aching in his ribcage, he took a deep breath, bringing fresh oxygen into his lungs and allowing him to stand on his own.

"We need to go," Senior reiterated.

"No." Tony focused on breathing for a moment, though every breath was like taking sandpaper to his irritated vocal cords. "Whole….story. Now."

"As you wish, Junior," Senior consented, pulling a handkerchief from his breast pocket and offering it to his son.

_Great movie. A true classic. The definition of timeless, _Tony thought, not wanting to strain his voice anymore than necessary. He accepted the handkerchief and wiped the blood off his face, staring at his father expectantly.

"My job required me to travel a lot—never stay in one place for more than a few years. Not put down roots. I learned a lot of things from them—"

Tony snapped his fingers twice and made circular motions with his index finger, telling Senior to cut to the chase. He wasn't in the mood for then entire DiNozzo history, just an explanation of why people were after him.

"Okay. Okay. This might be hard for you to hear, son," Senior paused for a long while and scrubbed his forehead with his hand.

Then he looked Tony directly in the eye and said, "I work in counterintelligence. For our government."

Tony raised his eyebrows in surprise, his gesture expressing the words he was unable to say.

"No, son. It's the truth." Senior paused and took a deep breath before continuing.

"I'm a Federal Agent, Junior. I work for the CIA."

* * *

"Gibbs!" Abby cried as the Lead Agent stormed into her lab. "No Caf-Pow? Is the machine broken again? I told the people in maintenance that it breaks down every three months but no one listens to a woman dressed in skulls and platform boots, I guess. Though I don't know why...I'm just in touch with my inner self."

She grinned widely, waiting for an explanation from Gibbs. When he remained silent, the smile dropped from her face and her eyes widened in alarm.

"What's wrong? Who's missing? Oh God! Nobody died, right? Oh, oh! I knew I should have stopped by the bull-pen earlier! I knew something was hinky! I had this dream, Gibbs, where the squad room had been painted black and we were all clustered around your desk dressed in our black Sunday best, but I couldn't see anyone's faces, I just knew it was our team…No, no! I can't think that way! Positive thoughts, positive thoughts!"

She took a deep breath and swung her arms to the roof in a circular motion before pressing her palms together, bringing them back to shoulder height and screwing her eyes tightly shut. "Okay, Gibbs. I'm ready. Hit me with the news."

"We're not sure of anything yet, Abs," Gibbs replied, putting his hands gently on her shoulders.

She looked up with wide, sorrowful eyes and began biting her lower lip anxiously. "That's even worse, Gibbs! You need to know everything about the team—where they are at all times! _Not _knowing is worse than having bad news, or so I've been told…I don't really buy into the whole—Never mind. There's time for that later. Who's in danger?" As she spoke, Abby mentally ran through the list of friends she had seen today: McGee had stopped by to admire her new i7 processor, Palmer had brought up blood and tissue bearing a synopsis of the newest victim's sad demise according to the 'good doctor', and Gibbs was right in front of her…That left two people.

"Tony or Ziva?"

"Has Tony mentioned anything to you about his family lately?" Gibbs continued, ignoring Abby's query.

"No, Gibbs, no. I can't be Tony again. I barely got over the last time he went AWOL and that was almost a year ago. You're supposed to keep track of them, Gibbs, and not let anything bad happen to any of them! I can't keep doing this, not knowing whether any of you are coming back at the end of each day…" When she had finished, her voice was barely more than a whisper and she had wrapped her arms tightly around herself in a personal hug.

"I'm doing my best, Abs. But right now, we need to know whether you've heard anything about DiNozzo Senior. Or any other DiNozzo's, for that matter," Gibbs added as an afterthought just in case his hunch was wrong.

"Nothing, Gibbs. He hasn't mentioned his dad since Senior's visit last January. It's really sad, Gibbs! I mean, I talk to my family at least once a week and they visit me every few months! I couldn't imagine never seeing them, ever…"

"I know, Abs." Gibbs couldn't help remembering the few years he'd had with Shannon and Kelly. He'd give his eye teeth for more time with them and here Senior was, throwing away the chance to get to know his son as an adult. How did a man like Tony manage to draw such an uncaring father in life?

"So, what does Tony need me to do?" Abby asked after taking a deep breath to collect herself. She dashed back to her computer, her fingers hovering anxiously over the keyboard. "Financials? Phone records? GPS tracker?"

"Ziva and McGee are on that. Can you pull of Senior's record?"

"Are you _really _asking me that? Even _Palmer _could manage…but…of course, you knew that," she backtracked as Gibbs fixed her with a softer version of his usual glare. "Wasn't implying you didn't."

"Do I need to bring Palmer in here? 'Cause I'm still looking at a blank plasma." Gibbs stated with a hint of impatience.

"That's hurts, Gibbs. Of course not. His record's coming up right—Ooh, this is not good."

"What's wrong?" Gibbs marched over and stood behind the Goth, looking blankly at the flashing screen.

"Senior's file's been sealed," Abby explained, whirling around to face her boss.

"Who sealed it?"

"The CIA!"

_

* * *

_

_That last segment was to assure you wonderful readers Senior was _not _lying to Tony about working for the CIA. __The only question now is how deep is Senior's involvement?_

_Thanks for reading! Drop me a line and let me know what you think! :)_


	5. Chapter 5

_Thanks for all your support for your story! The last set of reviews was perhaps some of the best I have ever received! _

_I'm going to take a quick moment to impress upon you readers how inspiring it is to receive reviews. Favorable reviews are preferred, but regardless of the content, each and every one is special to the author! Whether you are an author or not, everyone knows the incredible feeling what occurs when they receive feedback on their work. Readers/reviewers, just know the time and effort you put into just one comment are greatly appreciated and not taken for granted! That's why we love you guys! :)_

_All right, that's my pitch on reviews. Back to the story! Post-haste!_

_

* * *

_

"Thanks Abs," Gibbs responded, giving the Goth a quick peck on the cheek.

"What are you going to do now?"

"Call a friend," Gibbs called over his shoulder as he exited the lab.

Once in the hallway, he unhooked his phone from his belt and dialed number.

"Fornell."

"Jethro. It's been a while. It appears NCIS has been behaving without my supervision. What's a guy to do with his free time?"

"Good to hear from you too, Tobias. You still riding that desk job in that broom closet?"

"I've been promoted, not that you've ever bothered to ask. I have my own cubicle now."

"Should I send flowers or will a greeting card suffice?"

Fornell made a face at the receiver, not that Gibbs could see it. "It's part of my retirement package: better office, less hours. And that measly pension I've been drooling over for the last twenty years. After I deposit a few thousand more in Emily's college fund, I'll be as free as a bird."

"So, you've got a few years yet," Gibbs remarked snidely.

"Ha." Fornell replied with an emotionless laugh. "That's funny Jethro, real funny. I hear Reader's Digest pays big for that sort of stuff. You could make a million, quit your own job, and work fulltime on that boat in your basement. Hell, you could hire a team to build it for you."

"Ya looking for a break?" Gibbs questioned, choosing to ignore Fornell's statement.

"Actually, I could use a walk in the park. Our usual bench, twenty minutes?"

"You're bringing the coffee. And none of that cheap stuff from your break room—the real brew from that corner shoppe."

Fornell released a deep sigh. "You drive a hard bargain, Jethro. This is going to end up as a favor, isn't it?"

Gibbs remained silent and waited for Fornell to continue.

"Tell you what: the next time I get kicked out of an ex's house, you put me up for a few days. Fair?"

"If you say so, Tobias."

"Should I bring anything else? A VHS player to view the footage of a crime that you have obtained through questionable measures? A Sudoku puzzle to pass the time until you decide to let me in on the investigation? Pastries, so I don't wilt away into nothingness?"

"The file on Anthony DiNozzo Senior would be nice. The uncensored version."

"You can't be serious?" Fornell exclaimed so loudly Gibbs was forced to pull the phone slightly away from his ear. "DiNutso's father is involved with the CIA?"

"Apparently." Gibbs replied before he hung up the phone.

_What have you gotten yourself into DiNozzo? _Gibbs wondered as he walked back to his desk, and pulled his weapon from the drawer.

"McGee."

"Boss, it's only been ten minutes. While the new processors _are _extremely fast, they're not instantaneous. I'm still running the records on Tony's—"

"McGee!" The Junior Agent looked up to see Gibbs' cell phone flying at his face. He threw up his hands to avoid a collision with his face; the phone bounced off his hands, but McGee recovered in time to catch it before it collided with his desk.

"Make sure the ringer-thing's working. I needta know when DiNozzo's calling."

McGee flipped open the phone and ran through a few settings. "It's good, boss. The ringer is set on loud so you'll have no problem hearing—"

Gibbs plucked the phone from McGee's grasp and headed toward the elevator.

"Thank you McGee. Your knowledge of these infernal devices continues to astound me, day in and day out. I don't know what the team would do without you and your extensive knowledge of everything electronic," McGee muttered under his breath as he returned his gaze to his computer program and waited for the results of his search.

* * *

Tony laughed. He couldn't help it—here they were in the middle of a smoking car wreck with two dead guys and his dad had just fed him some line about being a CIA agent. Would it kill the man to tell the truth just once?

"No, really, dad. Who do you work for?" he managed as his laughter subsided.

Senior raised an eyebrow and looked Tony squarely in the eye.

"You can't—that's not possible! I mean, you're a DiNozzo: you were practically born with dollar bills for pupils! There is no way you would take a job that pays less monthly than the cost of that suit you're wearing now…." Tony trailed off as his mind raced to comprehend what his father had just said.

"I know it's hard for you to believe, but it's the truth. I joined the CIA before you were born, after your uncle got into some…trouble…with the Serbian nationalists. The CIA offered me protection for information—I buddied up to the big names, gained their confidence, learned their secrets. You ever wonder why we moved so much when you were little? It wasn't the women I was 'seeing' after your mother died. It was to maintain my cover as the rich playboy who threw money around, bought houses wherever he wanted, dated the latest centerfold model if he wished…"

Tony opened and closed his jaw a few times, alternating between deciding to give his father a piece of his mind or laughing off the unreal situation. His eyes narrowed as a rather harsh thought crossed his mind.

"Okay, dad. You've had your fun—you can come out whoever you are," Tony called to the shadows. He turned back to Senior, his eyes blazing. "I mean, there _is _a camera somewhere, right? I mean, you _did _get this on film? Gonna keep it on the mantle as a memento of your vacation to Washington, D.C.? Something to laugh about on a Saturday night with your newest fiancé?" With every word, his voice grew louder and louder despite the intense burn in his throat.

"There is no camera, Junior," Senior replied softly, genuine hurt audible in his voice. "I would never act that way, and I'm sorry you believe I would. But it is the truth."

The two were quiet for a moment but Tony continued to exude his anger in almost tangible waves.

"We really need to go," Senior urged as he heard sirens in the distance.

Tony straightened up and crossed his arms in front of his chest, wincing as the moment aggravated his injured arm.

"No," he said simply.

"No?"

"No," Tony repeated. "There is not _one _good reason why I shouldn't wait here and have you turn yourself in. They can protect you from whomever and you can tell them where that Atlas-thingy is."

"You've got this all wrong. There's nothing the police can do. If there was, I wouldn't have called you and put your life in danger. I've got to find Atlas and give it back to the CIA so I can clear my name."

"Oh, God. This is so _Mission: Impossible_. You have the little tape player that incinerates after you've been given your newest mission?"

Senior was quiet for a long moment. "You're right, Anthony. I'm asking far too much of you. You just stay here and get yourself to a hospital. Lie to the cops, tell them I kidnapped you, it doesn't really matter what story you concoct—you can even tell them the truth if you wish—just tell them _something_ so you're not culpable for my actions."

Senior got into the Explorer and turned the key. Tony gritted his teeth as the engine ground to life and parted from the sign post with an ear-splitting screech. Senior shifted the car into drive and pulled up next to Tony.

"Thank you, son, for coming to help. I know I wasn't there for you as a child and I don't deserve the trust you put in me." With that, Senior drove back toward the road.

Tony's mind was whirling faster than one of McGee's computers as he debated his next move.

"Dammit," he swore under his breath before heading after the slowly-moving Explorer. "Dad, wait."

"What are you doing, Anthony?" Senior questioned with a genuinely confused expression on his face as he stopped the car.

"Helping you," Tony scowled while climbing into the passenger's seat.

"But I just—"

"Yeah, I know what you said," Tony replied. "And I also know the spy game's a lot different these days. You won't stand a chance against the CIA and whoever else is after this Atlas without my help."

Senior opened his mouth but Tony cut him off.

"Save it, dad, until this is all over."

Silently nodding in agreement, Senior pulled onto the service streets while Tony began searching for his cell phone which he had left in the cup holder. His six hours were ending in less than ninety minutes and he knew Gibbs would be waiting for an update.

He spotted the battery cover on the dashboard and followed a trial of miscellaneous parts to the backseat where the two flaps of the phone were lying six inches apart, only connected by a few loose wires.

He pinched the bridge of his nose to dull the newfound headache and exhaled loudly before punching the radio's On button, reclining his seat, and assessing the situation.

One, his father may or may not be a spy—he could deal with that later. Two, they had no food or close allies—not ideal, but manageable. Three, no phone. And no safe house. Problem! Big, big problem! Gibbs would be sitting by the phone waiting for his call and would head-slap him into the next calendar year if he didn't receive one in exactly sixty minutes. If the hotel didn't have a working phone, Tony would be deader than the corpses on Ducky's autopsy tables.

It was only ten o'clock in the morning, and already it was shaping up to be a banner day.

* * *

"At least it's not raining this time," Fornell commented. He handed Gibbs a black coffee and took his customary seat next to the Lead Agent.

"Did you bring the file?" Gibbs asked, clearly in no mood for small talk.

"Is the Pope Catholic?" Fornell replied glibly while retrieving the file from underneath his arm.

"I appreciate this Tobias," Gibbs said, flipping briefly through the file before standing and heading away from the bench.

"That's all?" Fornell called, causing Gibbs to pause and turn to face the CIA liaison.

"If you were waiting for a 'Thank you', you're outta luck."

"I was hoping you'd at least read it here. That file can't—" Fornell hesitated as Gibbs fixed him with a piercing glare. "Then again, Christine in Filing won't notice it's missing for a few days."

Gibbs nodded in agreement and made it all the way to his car before he heard Fornell's voice behind him.

"Jethro."

"_What_, Tobias?" Gibbs asked impatiently as he sorted through his massive key ring for the sedan's key.

"Let me know if we can do anything to help. Don't tell this to DiNozzo, but I wouldn't want anything to happen to him. I know how much he means to you—on a strictly professional level, of course."

"Thank you, Tobias," Gibbs responded, tossing the file through the open window into the passenger's seat before opening the door and sitting behind the wheel.

"What was that Jethro? I didn't catch it the first time."

Gibbs cocked his head slightly and smiled at Fornell. "I'll let you know _if _we need your help."

"How generous," Fornell murmured as Gibbs stomped on the gas pedal and sped away from the park.

Less than five minutes later, Gibbs stormed into the bullpen to find Ziva and McGee crowded around the plasma. He threw Senior's file on his desk, startling both agents.

"We have something?"

"Yes, boss, I think we do." McGee clicked a few buttons on his remote and a picture of a beautiful brunette appeared on screen. "Tony's cell only received one call last night after 2000. The phone used to make the call is registered to one Sandra Parkins, resident of New York City, no priors. She's a preschool teacher and volunteers her weekends to the Big Brother/Big Sister campaign. Basically, she's a walking Mother Theresa. Anyway, ran her credit card and financials just to be sure, and she recently purchased a new cell phone at the Verizon store last night, same number, just a newer model. That means—"

"She either lost the phone or someone stole it to make a phone call that couldn't be traced," Ziva interrupted. "It's what I would have done, but why would one of Tony's relatives steal a phone? From all the stories I have heard, they are wealthy enough to afford their own, yes?"

"DiNozzo Senior may not be who we think he is," Gibbs stated, motioning to the file on his desk.

McGee immediately recognized the seal on the file's cover. "The CIA?"

"No, McGee, the Boy Scouts," Gibbs snapped.

"No, boss, I know what—that's not what I mean—I knew—"

"Ziva?" Gibbs asked, bringing an end to the younger agent's stuttering.

"Anthony DiNozzo Senior has been very busy the last few years. He divides his time between visiting foreign diplomats, usually on their own coin—"

"Dime," McGee corrected in Tony's absence.

"Whatever," Ziva frowned, shooting McGee a look before continuing. "As I was saying, he divided his time between visiting diplomats and arranging meetings with many very powerful people locally. He has no public criminal record, save a breaking and entering charge back in 1981."

"What was that for?"

"It wasn't specifically listed, but the charge still remains there. It appears someone wanted him reprimanded, but hid the true reason behind the crime."

"Sounds like a cover-up to me," McGee ventured.

"D'ya think, McGee?" Gibbs turned and gave McGee a deadly glance.

"Well…yes, yes I do, boss," McGee responded, surprising even himself by his boldness. "That's why I decided to re-run the financials on DiNozzo Senior and they were not pretty. His 401(k) is almost empty, his checking account is completely drained and his savings is non-existent. He has been receiving regular deposits every two weeks. Yes, I tried to trace the money, but it was bounced around fifteen countries and…I lost it in Morocco."

"Keep digging. Give me a call when you have something," Gibbs ordered as he snatched the file off of his desk with another glance at the clock.

DiNozzo had less than twenty minutes to call in before Gibbs decided to do something drastic. In the meantime, Gibbs called the elevator and waited for the first empty one to arrive. He stopped said elevator between the second and third floors and sat down to read the CIA's file on Anthony DiNozzo Senior.

* * *

_Thanks for reading! Please drop me a line and let me know what you think!_


	6. Chapter 6

_Thanks again to all who took the time to review! I can't describe how inspiring your thoughts/comments are! Please keep them coming! :)_

_Shoutout to __charluck nerdherder__. You know why._

_

* * *

_

With a loud groan, Sandor forced open his eyes, squinting in the bright morning light. He rolled onto his uninjured shoulder and took stock of his surroundings. He saw his partner lying not ten feet away from him, eyes staring unseeingly into the distance, blood covering a majority of his once-white dress shirt.

He also noticed the Explorer was gone and there were no other bodies. The Dinozzo's had outsmarted them. He had heard that Daddy DiNozzo was a legend of sorts, but it was a lot of speculation since most of his involvement could be neither confirmed nor denied.

He sighed heavily, crawling over to his partner to check unnecessarily for a pulse while contemplating the current turn of events. They had failed. Thompson was not going to be thrilled with them…well, just him, now.

He dug into his pocket with his good arm for his cell phone and hit Thompson's speed dial button.

"Yeah, boss…We've got a problem. DiNozzo escaped."

Sandor pulled the phone away from his ear as his boss swore loudly and viciously into the handset.

After a moment of silence, Sandor continued hesitantly. "But he's not alone. He's got a younger kid with him, might be his son. A Fed of some sort. They left in a blue '99 Explorer, license plate ALT-627."

Sandor listened attentively and nodded every so often while his boss rattled off some more instructions, intermixed with multiple expletives.

"You find out where Atlas is, Bruno," Thompson added at the end of his monologue, "or don't bother finding your way back from wherever you are. That chip is worth more than your entire existence."

"You got it, boss," Sandor replied to a dead line. Grimacing, he pulled himself to his feet and walked over to the SUV. The front wheel was in shreds and it was leaking both gas and brake fluid.

He was going to have to find another car. Grimly determined to not fail this time and to do whatever it took to bring Atlas back to Thompson, Sandor stepped into the road with one arm covering his bullet wound, and raised his thumb to the passing cars.

He'd have his revenge on those damn DiNozzo's, whether they choose to willingly hand over Atlas or not.

_

* * *

_

"We're going to _what_?" Tony exclaimed, staring at his father in disbelief. They had pulled off the main road a long time ago and were currently parked in the middle of an abandoned warehouse district.

"Set the car on fire," Senior repeated from the backseat. He removed a pocketknife and slashed the upholstery with one swift motion before withdrawing a First-Aid kit from the hole.

"Oh my god," Tony commented as overdramatically rolled his eyes. "Is your entire life an action movie cliché? Mark Wahlberg's character from _Shooter _had a First-Aid kit stored in the seat of his car too. Of course, one major difference is he had two bullet wounds—one in the hip and one in the shoulder—and somehow managed to escape all the alphabet agencies and the group run by Danny Glover, but seriously, dad, can't you guys be a little more creative?"

"We don't have a lot of time, Junior, so could you keep the movie references to a minimum?" Senior asked impatiently as he exited the vehicle, unscrewed the gas cap, and began ripping the old rag he'd found in the trunk into strips.

"We're going to break about fifty state laws not to mention another twenty federal laws by setting this car on fire," Tony stated.

"You got a better idea?" Senior huffed, beginning to knot the strips into a long rope.

Tony thought for a moment. "No. I was just channeling McGee—it's what he would say if he were here."

Senior handed his son the First Aid kit before stuffing one end of the makeshift fuse into the gas tank.

"You'd better get going. No arguments," Senior added as Tony started to protest. He tossed the motel key to Tony and continued. "I'm currently in better health than you are; you get yourself safely away from here. I'll meet you at the hotel after it's done."

Tony considered protesting once again, but decided that for once, his father was right. Even in his increased age, Senior would have a much better chance of making it out of the blast radius than he himself did. With a deep sigh and a frown, Tony headed off toward the motel.

He barely reacted to the explosion minutes later and chose not to turn around when he heard the heavy breathing and uneven footsteps approaching from behind. He tossed the First-Aid kit over his shoulder without looking or breaking pace, hearing a thud as it connected with some part of Senior's person.

"You need to do more cardio, dad. I didn't know it was possible to be louder than McAsthma after a foot chase."

Senior shot his son a look but said nothing, choosing instead to focus on slowing his breathing. Father and son entered through the back of the motel so as not to draw unnecessary attention to themselves.

"Nice place you got here," Tony quipped upon seeing the state of the motel room. He took one look at the dust-covered bed and opted for a less dirty desk chair. "Now, is the breakfast buffet complimentary, or is that extra?"

Senior ignored his son again, sitting down on the bed and opening the First-Aid kit.

"Let me take a look at you."

"I'm fine," Tony replied shortly.

"Anthony, you haven't moved that arm the entire ride here."

"Really, dad, your concern is touching, but I really I'm—"

"Anthony DiNozzo Junior!" Senior boomed, causing Tony to jump slightly at the use of his full name. "You will sit on this bed and allow me to examine your injuries or I will drive you to the hospital myself and check you in as a delusional schizophrenic who believes he is the reincarnated Georg von Trapp."

Tony scowled at his father. Making his displeasure known, he slowly pushed himself out of the chair and shuffled over to the bed.

"That's better," Senior affirmed. "Now, let me see your arm."

"Dad, there is nothing wrong with—" Tony stopped as Senior abruptly grabbed his arm and gently raised it a few inches. He hissed in pain and shrugged out of Senior's grip as fire raced through his left shoulder.

"That doesn't look like _nothing_." Senior gently grabbed Tony's bicep and, placing one hand over his scapula, carefully moved his shoulder around, frowning at the slight clicking noise that could be heard.

"When did you get your medical degree?" Tony asked, frowning at the clicking. Besides having a degree in physical education, he'd had enough college football and basketball injuries to know what clicking meant inflammation, which was never a favorable symptom.

"I've picked up a few things out in the field, Juinor. It's what makes me such a valuable asset to the CIA. Which is why I can't believe they believe I'm in league with Thompson." Senior lightly grasped Tony's forearm and bicep and straightened the arm slightly, stopped immediately when Tony's face tightened in pain.

"Speaking of, dad," Tony managed between gritted teeth, "who is this Thompson character and what is this Atlas you're supposed to have stolen?"

"Jeffrey Thompson is a low-life mobster who's looking to elevate his game to the big leagues. He's been arrested for everything from petty theft to attempted murder. Served a nickel up state for drug possession and assaulting the federal officer who arrested him. He wasn't the one we were after though. His brother Alvin is a high-class lawyer who's a member of every New York City country club and elite society possible. He's also the leader of the Grady cartel out of Long Island. We're almost certain his group is responsible for over fifty percent of the northeastern drug trade." While he spoke, Senior fashioned a sling out of the off-white sheet on the bed and offered it to Tony.

"I'm not wearing that," Tony stated firmly.

"Son, it's apparent even to me that you've strained both your rotator cuff and your elbow joint, though I doubt you've broken any of the bones of your arm. It would behoove you to wear the sling at least until you could have it x-rayed or an MRI for your shoulder to rule out subluxation."

"Not happening, dad. Now, stop stalling and tell me what Thompson's connection is to this Atlas."

Senior balked at his son's disobedience momentarily before setting the sling aside and pulling out the hydrogen peroxide and other assorted wound care products.

"The CIA received intel that the Grady cartel took part in a B&E last week at Centrium Headquarters, one of the few software development companies with major ties to almost all federal agencies. They reported nothing was missing, but our contacts overheard that some high-quality computer products were being smuggled out of the country at the end of this week. I was supposed to befriend Jeffrey and offer him a way to ship the objects out of the country. My cover was a reputable businessman who was looking to make a little cash on the side and heard Thompson was in need of the private boat to which I have access."

"I'm not seeing a problem. Buy the guy a drink, get him to talk about the family business, offer your esteemed assistance, call the CIA, arrest the guy, get 'Atlas' or whatever is was back. Easy as pie."

"Something went wrong. Three nights ago, I discovered my apartment had broken into. They really went the whole nine yards on the place: mattresses slashed open, drawers pulled out, clothes were everywhere, cabinets pulled off the wall, you get the picture. The night after, I was chloroformed going into my temporary hotel room. I woke up in a dark room in the middle of Long Island with two of Thompson's goons looming over me, asking where Atlas was. I told them I didn't know, but they didn't believe me. When they turned their backs, I picked the handcuffs, overpowered the two of them and called you. I _am _sorry I dragged you into this, Junior, but I didn't know who else to call. Genuine friendships in my profession are few and far between."

"Yeah, dad, I know," Tony waved away further First-Aid from Senior and searched the room for a clock. "You got the time? I'm supposed to give Gibbs a sit-rep every six hours—it was the only way I could get the way off of work," he added in response to Senior's glare. "Did you expect me to lie to him?"

"Not really, but I had my hopes. He and I don't exactly see eye-to-eye about most things."

"D'ya think, dad?" Tony responded sharply. "Anyone in the building could see the two of you were just itching for a reason to get into a fist-fight to prove who was the better man. Very _Wild Wild West_. If we back in the 1800s, you and Gibbs could settled the problem by a quick-draw at twenty paces. Pretty sure that's illegal nowadays though…"

"That obvious, huh? In my defense, your boss isn't the easiest guy to get along with…"

Seeing Tony was ready to defend Gibbs, Senior switched topics. "I guess my undercover skills could use a bit of a refresher course. It's been a while since I've been out on a mission—I worked a similar case a few years back, and even though I was almost retired, they thought I was the best candidate."

"Mazel tov. Now, can we go find a phone, so I still have a job when I return to D.C.?"

"Sure, Junior. You stay here and I'll 'borrow' a phone you can use."

"I'm not an invalid, dad. I'm perfectly capable of finding my own phone," Tony declared, pushing himself off of the bed.

"Junior, no offense, but you look like the creature from a bad B-film."

"Thanks, dad. I needed that." Despite his quick response, Tony realized the truth in his father's statement and sat back on the bed.

"Wait right here. I'll be back soon."

While Senior was gone, Tony headed to the bathroom to evaluate the rest of his injuries. His torso was a myriad of bruises, from both the airbags and his collision with the side of the car; he may have a cracked rib or two judging by one particularly tender spot on his left side; his nose luckily wasn't broken; and the bruising on his face was superficial and would heal within a few days. He jumped into the shower, where he gently washed and cleaned the dried blood from his person, staying longer than necessary to let the hot water beat over his battered body.

He threw his jeans back on, and attempted to wash as much of the scarlet liquid out of his favorite OSU shirt as possible while waiting for the phone. True to his word, Senior returned in less than twenty minutes, thoughtfully leaving Tony a ten minute window in which to get a hold of Gibbs. He also had bought sandwiches from the corner deli, which is where he had lifted the phone.

Tony's mouth began watering the minute his father stepped into the room.

"You're not going to win any Father of the Year awards, based on the fact that you lied to me for my whole life about your job, but, sometimes, you're not too bad," Tony remarked lightly, biting eagerly into the warm sandwich. After a few hearty bites, Tony set the food aside and dialed his boss.

"Hey, boss."

"How are you doing, DiNozzo?"

"Well, Metro's not going to be too happy with us considering we had to set the car on fire and all…"

"You _what_?" Gibbs bellowed, making Tony exceedingly happy he wasn't having this conversation in person. Gibbs must be turning his own shade of red by now, and they were only part way into the story.

"It was necessary, apparently. There were two guys after us, drove a black SUV, license plate TOD-892. One was 6'0", stocky, looked a lot like Richard Keil, and the other was taller, thinner, blond, dark-eyed—"

"Are you okay?" Gibbs interrupted.

"I'm fine, boss. Anyway, they crashed our car, and tried to get us to tell them where Atlas was."

"What's an Atlas?"

"Dunno. According to James Bond here, it's a computer thing made by Centrium Headquarters. Its purpose is classified and they didn't even report it missing when the Grady cartel broke in to the building last week."

In the squad room, Gibbs scrawled the license plate number on the Post-It and waved it in McGee's direction. The younger agent sprang from his seat and quickly brought up the SUV's current location on the plasma.

Ziva looked over from her desk and crowded around Gibbs' desk. She raised an eyebrow, and expressed through her gaze the various methods she would employ to forcibly remove the phone from his hand so she could listen to the conversation as well. Gibbs met her stare and tilted his head challengingly but, after a moment, the Lead Agent complied and put the call on speakerphone.

"It's in an abandoned lot in the center of Long Island. It hasn't moved for…" he paused while he computed the figures in his head, "about three hours."

"Is that McGeek?" Tony asked, hearing his partner's voice in the background.

"Hey, Tony! How long have you known your father was a secret agent?"

"Gibbs-slap him for me, Ziva," Tony ordered, knowing the Israeli wouldn't be far from the phone. He heard the whoosh of air even over the phone line and nodded satisfyingly at McGee's squeak.

"We can play 20 Questions later, McInquisitive. Right now, I need you to tell me everything you know about Centrium Headquarters and a project called Atlas…if that's okay with you boss…" Tony backtracked, realizing he might have overstepped his authority.

"Rule #38, McGee," Gibbs said, giving the agent a nod of approval.

"Yes, boss. All right, Tony, I'm pulling it up now."

Tony tapped his fingers impatiently.

"C'mon McSlowPoke, my clothes are going out of style."

"I'm hurrying, Tony. As I told Gibbs earlier, the computer only—"

"Shut up, McGee," Tony demanded, hearing a loud thud from outside the door. He remained silent, listening for further noises.

"What's going on, DiNozzo?"

"I thought I heard something…Guess my sixth sense working overtime, kinda like me now—" As Tony was speaking, the door to the hotel flew open and a small object was tossed in.

"Get down!" Senior cried, managing to throw himself over his son, just seconds before the object exploded.

* * *

_Thanks for reading! Let me know what you think!_


	7. Chapter 7

_Thank you all for your wonderful support!_

_A/N: I don't speak Italian. All errors are Google's fault._

* * *

"DiNozzo!" Gibbs cried into the phone. "Tony!"

But the line remained silent; only the movement of rushing air could be heard on the other end.

"McGee! Trace this number now!" Gibbs barked while he held the phone so tightly his knuckles were turning white.

"Already on it, boss." McGee's fingers flew over the keyboard, faster than he knew was possible, while Gibbs continued to yell the Senior Field Agent's name into the handset.

The Lead Agent strained to hear any sounds that would indicate his second-in-command was still alive. After a few tense moments, heavy footfalls and distorted sounds that could only be someone breathing through a mask were heard over the line.

"Target confirmed," a muffled voice came over the line. In the background, a loud collision was followed by a pained gasp for air. Gibbs shoved the phone closer to his ear as if that would somehow amplify the fading voice.

"Motel 21. 5th and Park, Long Island." McGee's voice broke through Gibbs' concentration.

"Ziva, get Metro over there ASAP—be sure they know there's a Federal Agent in distress."

"I am on it, Gibbs," Ziva dashed back to her computer and began trying to contact the Long Island police department.

"McGee—when's the next flight to Long Island?"

"One just left, boss. The next one isn't for another four hours."

"Driving?"

"Just over five hours, boss."

"With me McGee," Gibbs demanded as he stormed up the stairs towards the Director's office. He passed Cynthia's desk with McGee trailing not far behind, threw open the door and marched into the room, interrupting Vance in the middle of a telephone conversation.

"Yes, thank you, sir." Vance paused mid-nod to glare at his unwelcome intruders.

"It's an emergency," Gibbs stated, standing at the front of the oak desk and leaning into Vance's personal space.

Vance gently put the phone back in its cradle and slowly scribbled a few notes on a Post-It before looking up at the older agent.

"It usually is," he sighed, steepling his fingers and leaning back in his massive chair. "What's gone wrong this time? As I recall, you aren't working on any cases at the moment, so this 'emergency' isn't agency related. That could only mean it's personal. Since you and Agent McGee are here, I would guess either Agent David or Agent DiNozzo was in trouble, and since your Senior Field Agent has a knack for getting into…unfortunate…situations, I would say he was the emergency. How am I doing so far?"

"Shoulda stayed in the Marines, Le-on, and one day you could have been an agent like me. McGee, play the call."

McGee shuffled around the Director's desk and shrugged apologetically. With a deep sigh, Vance rolled out of the way and allowed McGee to work at his personal computer.

Within seconds, McGee had pulled up the phone call. While he listened, Vance grabbed an unused toothpick from a side drawer and began chewing on it thoughtfully.

"That's pretty thin, Gibbs. I can't send an army of agents to Long Island because of a phone call."

"What do you want then, Leon? A signed affidavit from the guys who threw that device expressing their sincere intention to harm my agent?"

"That's a bit far for even you, Gibbs. If I dispatched a team every time someone showed up late to work or a coworker heard strange sounds in the background of a call, this agency would never solve any cases. Think about how Miss Scuito spends her off-hours. We don't send the cavalry after her every time one of her friends hears a questionable noise in the background."

"This is DiNozzo we're talking about!" Gibbs raged. "Not some…Ferris Bueller who is looking to cheat some extra vacation time!"

"You actually know who Ferris Bueller is?" McGee asked incredulously.

Vance and Gibbs turned simultaneously to give McGee scalding looks.

"Of course…that's not important now…" he amended, turning back to his keyboard and pulling up the airline's schedule.

"There's not another flight for four hours and a five hour drive is out of the question. DiNozzo needs our help. Now." Gibbs exclaimed, slamming his palm on Vance's desk emphatically.

"What exactly do you want me to do Gibbs?" Vance said, scrubbing his face in a sign of defeat. As much as he differed from DiNozzo, the man was a stand-up, hardworking agent whose track record was _almost_ unparalleled in the field—not that he would ever personally admit that to DiNozzo. While Vance didn't understand half of what spewed from DiNozzo's mouth on a regular basis, the Director knew that honesty was one of the agent's key qualities. The more Vance thought about the situation, the more he was regretting his earlier words; even DiNozzo wouldn't stoop so low to staging an injury to garner a few days extra vacation.

"Get me a ride up there, Leon. Pull some strings. Contact SecNav himself if you have to. My agent is up there, probably injured and possibly fighting for his life."

"I make no promises, but I'll see what I can do," Vance replied, picking up the phone once again.

"That's not good enough," Gibbs responded as he left the room, slamming the door closed behind him. McGee skated through the closing door, avoiding becoming a McPancake by a few short seconds.

"McGee," Gibbs ordered as they descended the staircase, "you pull everything you can about DiNozzo Senior, and I don't just mean the stuff in his file. I want internet searches, MyBook—or whatever the hell you call that thing—conversations, phone calls, credit cards, mortgages, loans, wish lists, favorite restaurants, places he frequents, everything—his childhood Christmas lists if you can find them. If you come up empty, run it again. Get Ziva to help you. Have Ducky take a look at Senior's psych evals from his file—I want to know what kind of a man we are really dealing with here."

"Where are you going, boss?" McGee asked as Gibbs headed toward the elevator.

"To catch a spy."

Gibbs' cell phone rang as he exited the bullpen.

"Gibbs!" he barked into the receiver.

"Jethro. What's eating you?"

"This is a _really _bad time, Tobias."

"Well, I wouldn't call if it weren't important. Just thought you might need to know what was going on."

"And…" Gibbs asked impatiently.

"The Chiefs of Staff have been in conference for the last hour about the DiNutso Senior situation. Apparently he stole some chip that has the power to temporarily overwrite the satellite controls and allow any John Doe to use them for whatever he wishes."

Gibbs groaned internally at Fornell's explanation. Senior was a wanted fugitive, accused—or possibly guilty—of stealing a military-grade surveillance equipment, and he called his son for help. Gibbs briefly wondered if Tony knew what sort of trouble he would be in for assisting his father, or if Tony even knew the gravity of the situation.

"What did the Chiefs decide?"

"You're not going to like this, Jethro…" Fornell trailed off, delaying the inevitable as long as possible.

"Tobias," Gibbs warned. "This is no time for guessing games!"

"I know that Jethro. I'm just finding the words to tell you this gently. Until evidence proves otherwise, Senior's been declared a national threat. He and anyone who is assisting him just jumped to Number One on the CIA's Most Wanted List. He and DiNutso are wanted fugitives, with orders for immediate termination."

* * *

A short Italian man walked into a dark gloomy room, carrying a heavy bucket. He made his way toward the room's sole occupant, a dark-haired man sitting in the lone chair, slouching lifelessly against his bonds.

With an evil grin, the man swung the bucket, dumping its contents on the unconscious man.

Tony gasped in surprise as the ice-cold water struck him and hurled him into awareness. He thrashed against the restraints around his wrists and ankles that kept him bound to the chair but was unable to free himself.

How the hell had he ended up tied to a chair? As he thought about the last events, the memories slowly returned. The hotel…the phone call…the grenade.

_The object had exploded sending fog billowing into the room. Senior had thrown himself on top of his son, knocking the cell phone from his grasp in the process. As Tony struggled to drag his father off of him, he noticed a bitter stench dominating the room and quickly discovered it was becoming harder and harder to concentrate. _The gas emitting from the grenade was a knockout gas of some sort, _his muddled brain managed_.

_Hearing the door fly open and crash loudly into the wall, Tony dove behind the bed, dragging his father with him._

_He fought to formulate a plan, but his mind refused to work properly. He pulled his T-shirt over his face and cupped his hand around his mouth, knowing full-well that this trick would only guarantee him a few more minutes of fresh air. Not more than a few seconds later, Tony decided it would be better to hold his breath, which turned out to be an excellent decision since he appeared to no longer have full control off his arm which drooped limply to the ground. _

_A blurry mass entered the room with bright flashlights that broke up the murk; they were communicating with each other, but Tony could not understand what they were saying._

_He reached for the nightstand, slapping the surface in search of his gun, but his hand was kicked away. Tony looked up to see something that resembled The Blob_ _standing over him with a gas mask secured over his face. _Hazmat suits_, Tony thought confusedly._

_Tony was unable to avoid the heavy boot that collided with his midsection, forcing the fresh air from his lungs. Despite his burning lungs, he delayed breathing the poisoned air as long as possible. But after a while, he couldn't resist any longer and he opened his mouth to breathe in the toxic gas._

"Who the hell are you?" Tony snarled at the men who had drugged and abducted him.

"You are not in a position to ask questions. You will however _answer_ them if you ever want to leave this room," the man replied as he dropped the bucket and stood menacingly in front of the NCIS agent.

"Why am I having déjà vu—that's an excellent movie, by the way…absolutely mind-boggling, Denzel was astounding as Doug Carlin, ATF agent who travels through time to save Claire Kuchever, played by Paula Patton…but, I'm getting off topic."

He cocked his slightly and glanced curiously at the man in front of him. "Why was I referencing _Déjà Vu_, again? Oh, riiiiiight. I was in this situation last year—captured by Saleem Ulman, leader of a terrorist organization based out of Somalia. He tried his hardest to make me reveal all of NCIS' deepest secrets, but look who's still walking around. I'll give you a hint since you don't look like the brightest light bulb in the lamp factory…It ain't him."

The man stepped in closer and Tony had only a moment to brace himself before a fist slammed into his stomach with incredible force.

"I've been told to expect this sort of behavior from you," the man explained as Tony bent only slightly, trying his hardest to not show weakness in front of his captor. "Our intel reveals you're quite the smart ass. But I won't stand for any of it. One more smart comment and you'll be speaking to your sweet, sweet mother sooner than you expected."

Tony's eyes flashed angrily at the mention of his mother and a string of expletives that gave new meaning to the idiom "swearing like a sailor" passed through his mind; only by a superhuman effort was he able to remain silent and not react to the comment.

"Ah," the man remarked, seeing Tony's struggle to remain calm. "Did I hit a nerve? Your mother was a special person, eh? She meant a lot to you?"

_Dammit._ This guy was good; he knew exactly which of his buttons to press. Tony took a few deep breaths to calm himself before speaking.

"Let's just keep this conversation between the two of us. Leave the rest of my family out of this." Concern for his father passed fleetingly through his mind, but Tony cast it aside, choosing to first deal with the most immediate threat: this idiot standing in front of him.

"As much fun as it is to watch your squirm helplessly like a caught fish, you are correct. I have to be leaving to attend my daughter's dance recital in the next fifteen minutes, so let's make this quick and painless. You tell us where Atlas is, and you and your father can leave unharmed."

"Is that that guy who's supposed to hold up the world? I never really paid attention when my sophomore English teacher taught the mythology unit. You see, there was this gorgeous girl sitting in front of me. Black hair, lips that would rival Angelina Jolie's, body like a gymnast, and she was so good—"

The man ended Tony's description of the incredibly beauty by backhanding him viciously across the mouth.

"You are running out of time. Where is Atlas?"

"Are you referring to Gunnery Sergeant Bill Atlas? Marine, EOD disposal technician and all-around nice guy? I haven't seen him since our quality bonding time in the sewers. Wonder if he still remembers me…"

The man reared back and punched DiNozzo full in the mouth.

"You have one more chance before I am forced to do something I'm probably going to regret—and by that, I mean, I will regret missing Isabella's recital."

"Isabella?" Tony asked as he spat a mouthful of blood towards the man's designer shoes. "Such a pretty name. Too bad her father's a real bastard who's probably going to get himself killed before her 16th birthday."

The man purpled and he slammed his forearm into Tony's shoulders, knocking the chair backwards. He grinned widely as he heard the hard collision between the agent and the cement floor before sauntering over and placed his foot on Tony's windpipe.

"Maybe a few days without food or water will do you some good. You might be a little more forthcoming when your belly is aching and your throat is burning."

The Italian increased the pressure with his shoe for a second before walking out of the room, leaving Very Special Agent DiNozzo struggling for breath and wondering how he was going to get out this one alive.

* * *

In the next room over, Senior had regained consciousness to discover a different Italian crouching in front of him. The elder DiNozzo was bound in the same manner as his son, and was equally unable to free himself.

"DiNozzo," the associate spat. He stood up and drove his fist into Senior's stomach.

"What was that for Montaleone?" Senior panted, staring defiantly at his former acquaintance.

"My wife."

"I had nothing to do with that," Senior responded quickly, trying to avoid a serious confrontation with an old friend.

"Sure you didn't, you _merda! _ I know you and your type."

"That was all a big misunderstanding. I'd swear on my mother's grave I had nothing to do with her life sentence."

The Italian considered the seriousness of the swear before continuing.

"You may not have, but I know for sure _you _know where Atlas is."

"What lies has Thompson been feeding you? Why would I hide Atlas?" Senior replied incredulously. "I only profit if it makes it safely overseas. You know that!"

"You _figlio di una cagna_. I have proof!"

Montaleone reached into his pocket and pulled out an iPhone. He ran his thumb across the screen a few times before turning the device around so Senior could watch the video.

"This is Wednesday, taken across the street by Jenkins who was worried about your loyalty to Thompson. It's a good thing he was concerned…"

Senior stared at the iPhone, watching the scene unfold in front of him.

_He was walking down the street with a large brown bag dangling from one arm. _He was on his way home after a long day of shopping, _he remembered. _

"_DiNozzo!" Senior turned at the sound of his name, seeing Thompson running to catch up with him. Shit! He wasn't supposed to run into Thompson today; the man was supposed to be vacationing in Europe! Senior had just been doing business as the real Anthony DiNozzo, Senior and had none of his fake identification with him. Good thing he'd been well-trained. _

"_Thompson. What are you doing?" Senior asked, seamlessly slipping into the role of Thompson's friend that he had been playing for the last few weeks._

"_Is it wrong to want to visit with a family friend?"_

"_No," Senior replied. "Where are you off to?"_

"_Nowhere in particular. Just waiting while Maria shops. I was hoping you might want to grab lunch or something. Hopefully she will be ready for me to pay the bills by then."_

"_I had other plans, but those can be shifted, I believe."_

"_That is wonderful. I hear the new Armani on 8__th__ has quite good food."_

"_Yeah," Senior said with a glance at his watch, "I could use a meal right now as well."_

_Thompson clasped his arm around Senior's shoulder and herded him off toward the restaurant._

What Senior saw now that he hadn't noticed before was Thompson dropping a small item into his bag. That must have been whatever his men were so anxious to find.

"You have Atlas!" Montaleone screamed. "We searched your home, your car, everywhere and we could not find it. If you bring it to us, we will let your son go."

"That little shit," Senior cried, straining at his bonds in anger. "My own son—that disrespectful, ungrateful, worthless child. He's after it too, going behind my back! You need to trust me on this one: he's a trained federal operative so he's never going to tell you anything. Let me talk to him and I'll get its location; then we can sell it to Thompson's buyer and take a three-week vacation in the Caribbean—how's that sound?"

"How do you know he knows where it is?" Montaleone asked incredulously, doubt written over his entire expression.

With every sentence, more pieces fell into place and his son's actions began to make more and more sense to Senior. "You don't know my son—he was so eager to turn his back on the family. After his mother died, we hardly spoke—he was doing so poorly in school, I had to send him to a military academy just so he'd have a decent change of getting into college, and what does he do? Goes to Ohio freakin' State and throws around a leather ball for four years. He's so eager to make it big in the world, he apparently would sell out his own father. It must have been his mission to find out where it was and to steal it for himself—no wonder he was so eager to continue to help me out even after your friends crashed my Explorer. He's been playing me like a fiddle the entire time. I'm positive he has intel about its location and just needed a way to distract me while he located it."

"That sounds like a stretch," Montaleone responded uncertainly.

"Montaleone, have I ever led you astray?"

"No, but there's a first time for everything. It's my ass on the line if you fail. Thompson's eager to eliminate the two of you once he finds out where you hid Atlas."

"Then it would be to my benefit to extract that information from my son, now wouldn't?"

"I guess."

"Montaleone," Senior invoked, staring the Italian straight in the eye. "I won't let you down."

"You'd better not, or Thompson won't be the one ordering your death." Montaleone reluctantly began to undo the straps that held Senior to the chair.

Senior held out his hand for a gun. "Come on, my deadbeat son's a fed. He's not just gonna open up and spill his innermost secrets to dear old dad without a little persuasion."

"I am counting on you, DiNozzo." Montaleone's hand wavered over the Smith & Weston at his waistband. "There are not enough words to describe the incredible torture you will endure if this plan falls through."

"Just give me the gun, Monty, and we'll be vacationing on the beach surrounded by tan, bikini-clad women sooner than you even thought possible."

Montaleone grinned to himself for a moment before pulling a gun from his waistband. He ejected the magazine and removed all but two bullets.

"You can work with that, can't you?" he challenged as he shoved the magazine back into the grip of the weapon and handed it to DiNozzo Senior.

Senior raised his eyebrows slightly and walked authoritatively into the hallway.

"Which room?"

Montaleone pointed at the one next to Senior's.

Senior threw open the door and marched into the room, sending the two associates, who were in the process of forcing Tony's chair upright, scurrying away.

"Dad! How did you…What are you..." Tony asked confusedly, seeing his father step into the room.

"We have some questions for you, Junior." While he spoke, Senior slid back the chamber and checked to see if there was a bullet present. When he looked back at his son, his eyes were completely devoid of any emotion, as cold and calculating as the eyes of the serial killers or murderers Tony arrested on a daily basis.

"You'll tell us where Atlas is," Senior ordered as he leveled the gun at Tony, "or I'll be forced to shoot you myself."

* * *

_I hope you enjoyed another facet of Senior's personality. But when push comes to shove, whose side will he take?_

_Thanks for reading! Let me know what you think! :)_


	8. Chapter 8

_No, I have not fallen off the face of the earth, caught the pneumonic plague, or gone into a coma from a Caf-Pow! overdose. Reality reared its ugly head every time I sat down to write. Thank you for your patience and wonderful support! I hope this chapter was worth the wait!_

_As per special request, I have included specific cities in Long Island; I hope they're reasonable guesses, considering the writers of NCIS never narrowed down that specific detail._

* * *

"He's WHAT, Tobias?" Gibbs shouted into the receiver.

"You heard me, Jethro. I tried to talk the director into giving DiNozzo Senior the benefit of the doubt, but you know how he feels about NCIS. I just wanted to give you a heads-up, since your DiNozzo is probably mixed-up in this mess."

"You should have tried harder," Gibbs barked.

"You have to know I did my best, Jethro. While I was in his office, I was offered the liaison position between the FBI and NCIS pending DiNozzo's investigation. I have Vance's personal assurance that you will be nothing but helpful while we locate him and his father."

"If that's what the director says…" Gibbs trailed off.

"Why do I have the feeling you are not satisfied with that agreement?"

"It doesn't really matter. I won't be around to hinder your investigation."

"I sort-of figured that, Jethro. That's why I passed on the job and took the less popular option: keeping you under surveillance to ensure DiNozzo doesn't try to contact you."

"Well, I'm going to Long Island and if you're assigned to follow me, I guess you're coming with."

"I figured as much. I'll be at NCIS within the hour," Fornell stated as he disconnected the call.

Gibbs marched into Abby's lab and proceeded directly to her private office where he punched the "Off" button on the stereo with such force that he may have bruised his finger.

He turned around to find Abby standing directly behind him, dark circles accentuating her pale face and showcasing her abnormally long hours until Tony returned.

She gasped as she saw the uncharacteristically vulnerable look on Gibbs' face.

"He didn't…" was all Abby could manage before the tears of concern that had been welling for the last few hours finally broke through. She had managed to stay strong and keep her tears at bay since she'd heard about the phone call, but the look on Gibbs' face was the final straw. Her bridge broken, she buried her face into his shoulder, sobbing freely.

"McGee told me what happened. I need him alive, Gibbs. Back. Here. Bringing me Caf-Pows!, head-slapping McGee, keeping you in line…It's just not the same without him."

Gibbs was momentarily taken aback by the Goth's emotional display, but recovered quickly and wrapped his arms around her shoulders.

"We'll find him, Abs."

"I heard the tape, Gibbs. That explosion…"

"I know, Abby," Gibbs replied, rubbing Abby's back soothingly. He gently pulled her away from him and lifted her chin so they were staring eye-to-eye.

"He _will_ be okay. Or he'll have to answer to me."

Abby sniffled loudly before wiping her eyes with the back of her hand smearing her mascara. Gibbs reached over and handed her a Kleenex from the box on her desk.

"Thanks bossman. And not just for the tissue, though that was really helpful—I probably look like a mess."

Gibbs continued to look at Abby, waiting for her to continue.

"Soooo," Abby drawled as she dragged the tissue under her eyes. "What do you need from me? I know you came down here for a reason."

"I need a ride to Calverton, Long Island; I don't care if it's in the back of a garbage truck—as long as it's fast. What can you do about it?"

"I had a feeling you were going to ask that—after all these years of working for you, I may have developed my own gut," she interjected, her emotional lapse completely forgotten. Her eyes shone excitedly as she continued with her contribution to Tony's rescue. "There's this friend of Sister Rosita's who works as a medical transporter for Bethesda. The hows and whys are not important but there's a helo carrying a liver from Bethesda to Peconic Bay Medical Center in Rivertown. That's not too far from Tony's last known location; the drive shouldn't be all that long..."

"That's good work, Abby," Gibbs enthused, giving the forensic scientist a gentle kiss on the forehead.

"Bring him back, Gibbs." Abby was standing by her computer, tightly wrapped in a self-hug and biting her lower lip expectantly.

"Always do, Abs," Gibbs promised as he stepped into the elevator.

Seconds later, he arrived in the NCIS armory where he checked out three extra magazines for his SIGs and an extra SIG for DiNozzo assuming the Senior Field Agent was no longer in possession of his. After much consideration, he grudgingly added an extra hand-gun for DiNozzo Senior in the extreme they were severely outnumbered. And by severely outnumbered, the entire CIA sniper team would have to be camped outside of wherever Tony and his father were, in order for Gibbs to give Senior the handgun, but it never hurt to be prepared.

As he was signing his name for the umpteenth time, he heard the elevator doors slide open behind him.

"You're not going to change my mind," Gibbs declared without turning around.

"I wasn't going to try," Vance replied, taking a seat next to Gibbs. "I heard from Miss Scuito that you have secured passage to Long Island aboard a Bethesda helo."

"That's right." Gibbs arranged the weapons in his backpack and headed for the elevator.

"Just a minute, Gibbs. I believe we may have reached a snafu in the office earlier."

Gibbs remained silent, waiting for the Director to continue.

"Well, that is why I am here. I feel I was misunderstood in regards to my earlier attitude toward certain members of your team. I understand how important your team is to you and, despite my personal feelings toward DiNozzo, I have an obligation to protect all my agents equally, as if they were my own flesh and blood."

"It's about time you realized that, Le-on," Gibbs remarked callously. Seeing the Director wince slightly, he sighed heavily and began again.

"What I meant to say, Leon, was that was…nice…of you to say. But it's about damn time you appreciate my team for who they are, not how high their case-closure rate is."

"I've always treated your team with the utmost respect, Gibbs."

"You could have fooled me," Gibbs returned as the elevator arrived, recalling the clandestine mole hunt that had broken up his team and sent them to all corners of the world.

"I know we've had our rough patches, but, during the last few months, I've been cautiously optimistic that we've begun to see eye-to-eye."

"Something like that," Gibbs shrugged.

"Good. Now, as Director of a federal agency, it is my job to keep the information sharing at a strictly "need-to-know" basis. That should keep the CIA and the FBI, who will be opening their own investigation into DiNozzo's actions, at bay while you help DiNozzo with his 'family problem'."

"We appreciate that," Gibbs replied honestly, speaking for both Tony and himself.

"When you find him, be sure to tell DiNozzo I haven't forgotten how he broke protocol and didn't file for vacation two weeks in advance. There will be serious repercussions for that when he returns."

"I'll let him know, Leon," Gibbs said with a smile as the elevator doors slid closed.

* * *

The elevator opened on the squad room where Fornell was reclining in Gibbs' chair with his feet perched on Gibbs' paperwork. Ziva and McGee sat in tense anticipation, waiting for the fireworks that would come when Gibbs returned.

"McGee, you're in charge," Gibbs ordered, brushing by Fornell and grabbing his weapon and badge from his desk drawer. Fornell grabbed at the desk while the chair spun wildly to keep from sliding to the floor. He sprang from the chair when it stopped moving and shot Gibbs a look of pure venom.

"No way, boss," McGee responded defiantly, slinging his backpack over his shoulder. "You're not going alone! Tony is our partner, and more than that, our friend."

He paused a moment before playing his trump card. "And you know that if one of us were in trouble and Tony were here, he'd tell you the same thing."

The entire room was silent while McGee met Gibbs' unblinking stare.

"McGee, Fornell's coming along for backup. I need someone I trust to handle the situation from here. Someone has to slow down the CIA and keep them from hanging DiNozzo's head over the mantle."

McGee held Gibbs' gaze for a long moment before sitting back at his desk. "Okay, but we expect regular reports until you've found him."

"Who died and left you boss?" Gibbs grinned, pride swelling at the intense loyalty McGee was displaying.

"Tony did, when he didn't show up for work this morning," McGee retorted with a sharp nod.

"And he'd be proud of you, Tim."

McGee's mouth dropped nearly to the floor at Gibbs' compliment. _Oh this was so not good, _he thought. _ Gibbs _never_ gave compliments,__ used his first name, or was fairly nice (for Gibbs' standards). _The few times during his entire tenure as an agent that Gibbs acted this way were not what McGee would refer to as fond memories. That could only mean one thing-Gibbs thought Tony was really in trouble.

"Close your mouth, Timothy," Ducky remarked as he entered the squad room, followed closely by Palmer. "We are not—"

"Sawfish," Ziva interjected confidently.

"Codfish, my dear," Ducky corrected, patting Ziva's shoulder gently. "Sawfish have long, toothy snouts. Codfish on the other hand are a most delectable, North Atlantic fish, with the most succulent white flesh. Mother used to poach them once a month when company visited from Scotland—"

"Ducky…" Gibbs warned.

"Yes, of course, that is a story for another time my dear. Where is the file on Anthony's father?"

"Right here, Ducky," McGee said, handing over the thick folder.

"This is quite impressive," Ducky lauded, taking a seat at Tony's desk. "It will be fascinating to discover Mr. DiNozzo's deepest secrets with hope that it leads to an understanding of what makes him tick."

Ducky continued, but Gibbs had stopped listening. "You ready, Tobias?"

"Of course, Jethro. But I have one question before we leave: You like Cooler Ranch Doritos? I had a coupon for them, and heard from the newbies they're quite the road trip snack."

"Let's go, Tobias." Gibbs rolled his eyes, wondering why everyone decided to channel DiNozzo when the Senior Field Agent wasn't around. "You can save them for DiNozzo. I'm sure he'd love a 'welcome back' gift from you."

_Hold on, Tony_, Gibbs thought as he sped to Bethesda, breaking no less than a handful of speeding laws and causing Fornell to empty the contents of his stomach out the passenger's side window more than once.

_We're coming for you._

* * *

Shock did not describe how Tony felt as his father's announcement.

"You bastard," Tony swore vehemently, shaking his head in disbelief. "I trusted you!"

"Yeah, and how'd that work out for you?" Senior snarled. "Now, tell me where Atlas is."

"I don't know where it is!" Tony exasperated, examining his father for any sign that the man wasn't serious about his intentions. Finding none, he cursed himself for his foolishness. This whole spy deal was a little far-fetched, but he had fallen for it, head-first. He was so eager to have a typical American family that he had forgotten Rule Number Eight…and now, it was coming back to haunt him; he only hoped he could distract his father long enough to figure a way out of this mess. He steeled himself against his emotions, locking them away, so he could do what he needed to do to ensure his survival.

"Then we have no further use for you." Senior released the safety and squeezed one eye shut in deep concentration as he lined up a shot.

"I'd leave if I were you Montaleone, unless you want blood over those new shoes you're wearing," he called over his shoulder, not taking his eye off a particular patch over Tony's heart.

Montaleone shot Senior one final glance before exiting the room and slamming the door shut behind him. Senior continued to aim his weapon at his son for a few extra seconds before thumbing the safety back on and sliding the gun into his waistband.

He hurried over to his son and crouched beside his son.

"How badly are you hurt?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Tony stared at his father in confusion. "Are you serious? You can't just swap sides on a whim! You're either with them or with me, _not _both."

"If that's a code for 'can I trust you,' the answer is _yes_. And you're going to have to if you want to escape."

"What the hell was that then?"

"My cover. Or did you want to find a way out of here all by your lonesome?" Senior questioned as he began loosening the restraints around his son's wrists.

"You have one final chance, DiNozzo," Senior raised his voice so he could be heard in the hallway. "I'm giving you ten seconds to reveal Atlas' location before…" he trailed off, leaving the unfinished threat to Montaleone's imagination.

Not entirely sure how to react, Tony sat in silence, rubbing his chaffed wrists.

"You may not trust me, but you have to admit, this is currently your only option," Senior offered quietly.

_Dammit. He had a point_. With one final glance at his father, who nodded encouragingly, Tony responded. "Good luck finding it without me."

"I'll take my chances," Senior returned loudly as he undid the last strap. Tony sprang up from the chair, refusing to acknowledge the spinning world and his wobbly legs.

"You take the door," Senior whispered, taking his place in front of the door so the now empty chair was shielded.

"Any last words?" Senior asked, raising his voice once again.

"None that I'm going share with you," Tony spat. And it was pretty much the truth; he wasn't sure where he and his father stood at the moment, but Senior was right about one thing: he was his only option at the moment. He pressed himself against the wall on the right side of the door, nodding to his father when he was in position.

Senior pulled his gun and fired three times into the far wall.

"What the hell, DiNozzo?" Montaleone cried, bursting through the door. Tony caught the door and slammed it back into the Italian's face. Montaleone collapsed to the floor, blood pouring from his nose, his hands flying immediately to his injury. Tony followed with a sharp kick to Montaleone's stomach and another to the man's jaw.

"That's good work, Junior." Senior complimented as he sprang into the hallway, crouched slightly in the Weaver stance. While he kept watch, Tony quickly searched Montaleone and relieved the man of his wallet, keys and cell phone.

"This way," Senior hissed, heading off to the right.

"When this is all over, dad, we need to have a serious heart-to-heart," Tony demanded, receiving only silence as his answer. He heard a small squeaking off to his left and saw a black-haired man step into the hallway, gun drawn.

"Look out!" he shouted to his father.

Senior spun around and shot-off two rounds, both of which hit their intended target. As the black-haired man crumpled to the ground, Tony bent down and grabbed the man's weapon. They continued down the hallway in a similar fashion, each sliding along their own wall, watching out for more of Thompson's accomplices.

At the end of the hallway was a door, which led to a small parking lot.

"Small car. Probably a Nissan Ultima," Tony said.

"Now how would you know that?" Senior demanded.

"Well, I could say it's because I worked two years in Baltimore Transit, but really, the brand's imprinted on the key," Tony responded glibly, pointing out the red sedan in a far corner.

They headed wordlessly toward the vehicle.

"Are you okay to drive? I haven't forgotten about your shoulder—"

Tony shot his father a 'what do you think?' expression and got behind the wheel.

"Have it your way," Senior threw up his hands.

"Call Gibbs." Tony tossed Montaleone's phone into his father's lap.

"Are you sure you don't want to call so I can drive?"

"Cowboy up, dad, and make the call," Tony replied shortly as loud shouts leaked out of the open doorway.

Senior sighed heavily before flipping open the phone. "What's the number?"

Tony recited the number while pulled the car out of the lot. As they reached the street, he saw two men burst from the building, guns drawn.

"Get down," he hollered, slamming his foot down on the gas. The car jumped forward, out of reach of the small-caliber handguns before the men could fire.

"Gibbs." Senior pressed the phone tightly to his ear, struggling to separate the Lead Agent's voice from the loud thumping in the background.

"Hello Jethro. This is Anthony DiNozzo, Senior."

"Where's Tony?"

"He's driving."

"That's good to hear. I _will_ press charges for assisting in the assault of a Federal Officer if I find out that he's been injured."

"He's got a few bruises, and probably a couple more serious injuries he won't share with me, but he appears to be all right."

"_Appears?_" Gibbs barked.

"I'm fine, boss," Tony shouted, hopefully loud enough to be heard over the line.

"Let me speak to him," Gibbs ordered. Senior shrugged and handed Tony the handset.

Continuing to use his uninjured arm to drive, Tony grimaced as he bent his left arm and placed the phone next to his ear.

"You know, I'm breaking the law talking to you while driving," Tony quipped.

"Well, then we'd better make this quick," Gibbs returned, glad to hear his agent's quick and witty response. "Where are you?"

Tony looked around for the nearest street sign. "Driving near the 27. Where are _you_? I can hardly hear you."

"On a helo, coming to give you a hand."

"How did you…"

"Never underestimate the powers of Sister Rosita," Gibbs replied with a grin.

"We have a problem, Junior," Senior interrupted, pointing in the rearview mirror to a black sedan that just pulled onto the highway. Suddenly, a police car sped into view, switching lanes between the Nissan and its tail, it top lights flashing red and blue and its siren screeching.

"Shit," Tony swore.

"What's going on?"

"There's a cop behind me; he wants me to pull over."

"Do it, DiNozzo. We don't want to piss off the Long Island PD as well as the FBI and the CIA."

"We what?" Tony asked again, beginning to feel like a broken record. He did as Gibbs suggested, pulling off the highway at the next exit. The black sedan that had been following them continued driving on the highway, but, due to the downward slope of the exit ramp, Tony was unable to catch the license plate number.

"Well, it _is_ the FBI's case once an NCIS agent and his father leapfrog past all the terrorists and become number one on the CIA's Most Wanted List."

"I leave for a few hours and I end up a wanted fugitive. That would make me Richard Kimble, a rich, famous cardiovascular surgeon, played by Harrison Ford. That makes you the gruff, omniscient US Marshall Samuel Gerard, played by Tommy Lee Jones. In all fairness, I think is an accurate comparison," Tony cracked, trying to lighten the mood. He saw the young cop get out of the car and head toward the Nissan, his hand resting on his holster in a gesture that was meant to be intimidating.

"Stay on the line, boss. I'll handle this." While Tony dropped the phone between the seats, Senior quickly shoved both guns into the glove compartment, so as not to further agitate the already-anxious kid.

"Your license and proof of registration, please," the scrawny redhead squeaked.

Tony instinctively reached for his wallet in his back pocket before realizing that it was missing. Montaleone or another associate had probably taken it back in the room.

He turned back to the cop and flashed his most winning smile. "Listen to me. I'm an undercover federal agent without my proper ID."

"What is your name, sir?"

"My name?" Tony repeated, stalling for a way out of giving his real name, given his current situation on the CIA's hit list.

"Yes, sir. What is your name?"

"Well, you see—"

The cop stepped back from the Nissan and drew his gun. "Put your hands out of the window and get out of the car."

"You're making a terrible mistake," Tony warned as he raised his hands and carefully opened the car door. "Just call my boss, Leroy Jethro Gibbs, NCIS Lead Agent of the MCRT and Gunnery Sergeant in the Marines—he'll vouch for me."

"I've never heard of NCIS."

"Figures," Tony muttered. Behind the cop, Tony saw the black sedan made another appearance. Seeing the cop out in front of the Nissan, it continued by slowly without stopping.

"What was that?"

"Listen, Officer, I'm asking you to get back in your car and phone Gibbs."

Senior reached over toward the passenger side window. "Is that you, Robert?"

The cop started at the sound of his name and bent slightly to get a better look at Senior.

"Mr. DiNozzo?" He turned back to Tony and gave him a closer look.

"Tony?"

"Bobby Jenkins?" The cop nodded excitedly.

"It's been—"

"Years." Bobby gave the DiNozzo's one final look before holstering his weapon, and wrapping Tony in a bear-hug that rivaled Abby's tightest vice.

"…killing…me…" Tony managed.

"Sorry," Bobby replied, quickly releasing Tony. "So, you're a Fed now. For NCSI…"

"NCIS," Tony corrected, but Bobby continued without regarding Tony's interruption.

"…that basketball scholarship didn't last? Didn't make it to the Pro's?"

"Blew out my knee junior year of college." As he spoke, Tony recalled the day he'd gone up for the lay-up, having outrun the opponents, and was hit from behind by the opponent's center who had a knack for playing dirty, heard the ligaments snap in his knee and the excruciating pain lace through his leg. He'd collapsed, holding his knee, the game stopping around him, but it didn't matter—he knew he was through playing ball. His hopes, his dreams, shattered in that one instant, one of the worst moments of his life.

"That sucks, man," Bobby replied sympathetically. "You were the best in the league; we all thought you'd be making millions before the rest of us got out of school."

Behind Bobby, Tony saw the black sedan make another pass.

"Hey, Bobby. I have an idea," Tony began, clasping his good arm tightly around the officer's shoulder. "We're here on vacation and what a better way to spend my vacation with an old friend than to catch-up with an old friend?"

"I'm sorry, Tony, but I'm on duty for the next hour."

"Me too, Bobby. Me too," Tony said mournfully, realizing they just couldn't hang around the police department for the next few hours until Bobby was off-duty. Even though it had been years since they'd last seen each other, Tony didn't want to endanger the lives of one of his closest childhood friends. They would have to resort to Plan B—which he was still working on—without police protection.

"Am I free to go?" he asked hopefully.

"Sure, but keep it under the speed limit from now on, okay? Here in little Long Island, the cops are very uptight about the rules."

"Will do, Bobby. Thanks, man," Tony got back into the car and pulled away slowly.

He grabbed the phone from the console.

"You still there Gibbs?"

"What the hell was that, DiNozzo?"

"An old friend thought I was speeding, which I wasn't, I'll have you know."

"Doesn't matter. Just be more careful next time. Do you have a plan yet?"

"Not really. I'm kinda flying by the seat of my pants here. But I _am_ sure of one thing: we're ending this here, boss. I couldn't stand the thought of the team being put in danger because of my father's actions."

"You're the boss. Do you have any idea where Atlas is?"

"No. I wish I did though. It would make this whole recovery thing I little easier."

"Then it's a good thing I know Atlas's location," Senior interrupted, making his first real contribution to the conversation.

"And you were going to tell us _when_?" Tony snapped testily, turning to give his father his best version of a Gibbs-glare.

"I'm telling you know," Senior spoke to his son before returning to the phone conversation. "It's at Junior's house, Gibbs."

"No, it's not," Tony shot back. "I would know—"

"It's in the present I sent you for your birthday. Thompson slipped it into the bag when he interrupted me on the way to the post office. I was in a hurry so I just placed the bag into the box without looking at it." Senior spoke to his son.

"Boss…"

"I heard him, DiNozzo. Fornell, call McGee."

"On it, Jethro."

"Where should we meet you?"

Tony thought for a moment before grinning wickedly.

"Cousin Crispin's vacation house in Long Island. It's about time I got a return on that $10,000 IOU..."

* * *

_We had to cover some important ground before the next chapter, which reunited Gibbs and Tony. Do you think the sparks are going to fly when Gibbs meets Senior? Yeah, I agree. :)_

_Thanks for reading! Reviews always appreciated!_


	9. Chapter 9

"Got it Fornell. We're on our way." McGee slammed the phone into its cradle while retrieving his gun from his desk drawer.

Ziva, who had been listening intently from across the room, immediately grabbed her backpack from its place beside her desk and headed for the elevator.

"Where are we out to, McGee?"

"_Off_, Ziva," McGee corrected as he impatiently waited for the elevator.

"But we are going _out_, no?"

"Well…yes, but…"

"How am I expected to understand a language that you natives can't even explain?" Ziva questioned.

"That's just the way things are. Deal with it," McGee replied as the elevator dinged its arrival.

"All right, McGee, I will ask again. Where are going?"

"Tony's apartment."

"What exactly is in Special Agent DiNozzo's apartment?" a voice boomed from behind McGee, startling the younger agent.

"Well, Director, we have intel that Atlas is being kept at Ton—Agent DiNozzo's apartment," McGee explained as he entered the elevator.

"Good," Vance nodded, stepping into the elevator as well. There was silence while the elevator descended three floors. At the parking garage, Vance continued to follow the agents to the company sedan and slid into the backseat much to his agents' surprise.

"You are coming with us?" Ziva turned slightly in her seat in order to see the Director's face and read his facial expression to determine whether or not he was lying.

"Do you know what _ohana_ means, Agent David?" Vance responded, not specifically answering Ziva's question.

Though the Israeli knew a great many languages, she couldn't recall ever hearing that specific word. "No, Director, I do not believe I do."

"It's a Hawaiian word meaning family. As cliché as it sounds, Gibbs has created a loyal little family here with methods that I cannot fathom. Regardless of my personal feelings, in a family, no one is left behind," the Director shrugged.

He waited expectantly for McGee and Ziva to wipe the extreme shock from their expressions.

"Well, I could have said it was because I promised the Joint Chiefs I would personally pursue every lead surrounding Atlas' location until the device is back in Centrium HQ's head designer's hands, but I liked the first option much better."

After another moment of silence, McGee nodded slowly and started the sedan. "It's nice to have you with us, Director."

* * *

They arrived at Tony's apartment and, seeing a black van with New York license plates idling across the street, continued down another two streets before parking.

"Once Thompson realized Tony was Senior's son, he must have sent men to search Tony's apartment," Ziva realized. "It is what I would have done as well, except I would not have been so obvious."

"McGee," the Director ordered while pulling a SIG from his waistband, "you and David take the front, I'll go around back."

"On it, Director," they affirmed.

Ziva and McGee approached the front door from opposite angles, their respective gun hands hovering over their weapons. Finding the door locked, Ziva immediately withdrew a billfold from a back pocket and extracted her trusted lock picks with a grin.

"Ziva," McGee warned, pointed to the camera trained on the door.

"Do you have a better idea, McGee?"

"Yes, actually. I do." McGee ran his hands up and down the call buttons next to the door. He grinned conspiratorially when, less than a minute later, they heard the telltale buzz and the door clicked open.

"Impressive, McGee," Ziva nodded her approval as she headed into the apartment complex and observed her surroundings. The front room was sparsely decorated with only one sofa and two chairs and a few large portraits decorating the walls. There were two winding staircases, one on each end of the large entry that were meant to give the apartment a slightly upscale look, an elevator directly in front of the doorway, and a small desk off to the side which was currently occupied by a sleeping landlord.

"Tony taught it to me after his preferred method failed. Bullet-resistant glass and all…" McGee recalled with a slight grin, remembering the surprise on the Senior Agent's face when the rock had bounced back without even so much as cracking the window.

Ziva threw out her arm, forcing McGee to stop abruptly as she heard hurried, uneven footsteps with what Tony had dubbed her "BatGirl skills".

"What is it?" McGee whispered, slipping his gun out of its holster.

The former Mossad operative did not answer, heading up the stairway in a half-crouch with her weapon pointed at the second floor.

"Go cover the other staircase, McGee. Someone's on their way down."

"That's not a good idea, Ziva. Bad things happen when two people split up." Despite his objection, McGee realized the logic in her argument and walked across the empty foyer to the other staircase.

As Ziva rounded the bend in the staircase, she saw a man dressed in all black and carrying a small package under one arm, his foot hovering over the first stair. The man froze as he saw the lithe gun-toting agent and sprinted off in the other direction.

"McGee! He's heading your way!" Ziva shouted. Doors began opening in the hallway as the apartment's occupants heard the pounding footsteps and began peeking cautiously out of their doorways to see the commotion.

"Federal Agents! Stay in your rooms!" Ziva ordered the tenants, removing all possible hostages from a situation that was quickly turning sour, while sprinting after the man.

McGee appeared at the other end of the hallway, gun pointed directly at the man.

"Get down on the ground, hands behind your head!" McGee ordered in a tone that would have made Gibbs' proud.

The man turned around, fear flashing across his features. He glanced around wildly and shot off to the left into an adjacent hallway.

Ziva swore in Hebrew, realizing she couldn't take the shot, since she risked the chance of hitting McGee. She dashed toward the intersection, where she and McGee pressed themselves against opposite sides of the hall. On McGee's nod, they sprang into the entry, guns drawn.

The man was looking over his shoulder at the armed feds failed to notice he was running directly toward one Leon Vance who had appeared at the other end of the hallway.

"Freeze!" Vance demanded, leveling his gun at the running man.

The escapee glanced once again over his shoulder, seeing Ziva and McGee standing shoulder to shoulder, guns at the ready.

"I have a shot, Director," Ziva said, her voice completely devoid of any emotion.

The runner gulped audibly before putting the package on the ground.

"Don't shoot!" he squeaked, kneeling and clasping his hands behind his head.

"Director." Ziva refocused her weapon to ensure she would not miss, given the opportunity.

The man looked in horror at Vance, who he had obviously pegged as the man in charge.

"You're not going to let her shoot me?"

A feral grin crossed Vance's face as he bent down and picked up the package. "I should…"

Ziva closed one eye and prepared to take her shot.

"…but I won't. Agent McGee, read this poor soul his Article 31 rights."

While McGee handcuffed the man, Vance slid open the package with his key and extracted a brown bag. He unfolded the bag and pulled out a book.

"A book?" Ziva asked skeptically. "Atlas is a novel?"

"More importantly, Tony's dad sent him a book for his birthday?" McGee added incredulously. "That's even worse than the power saw from a few years ago."

Vance grabbed the book by its covers and gently shook it. Nothing fell from the pages. He turned back to the brown bag and carefully examined it.

After a moment, he withdrew a small chip about the size of a memory card and held it up for McGee and Ziva to see.

"This," he announced dramatically, "is Atlas."

* * *

"Are you sure about this, son?" Senior questioned as they pulled up in front of Crispin's vacation house, or more accurately, mansion. A long driveway dead ended in a circular drive with a fountain in the middle which backed up to the three-story home. "Tactically, it will be very to see anyone coming, but I'm not sure Crispin will be very pleased that we used his home for a safe house."

"Yes, dad," Tony sighed. "I'm sure. Uncle Clive left his _entire_ estate to dear Crispy and he had the _gall_ to ask me to return his $10,000. Whatever damage done to his fifteenth set of china or fourth print of the Mona Lisa is nothing that can't be undone with a few trips to Home Depot…maybe a three month vacation to Paris…"

"I wasn't aware you hated your cousin so intensely," Senior replied as he got out of the car.

"Well, dad, you didn't have to spend an entire summer with him trying to weasel his way between you and Uncle Clive even though you were clearly the favorite. I mean, no one else escorted him around and allowed him to test-drive an Aston Martin, even though his eyesight was like 20/100. Now that is one road trip I won't forget for a long time…" As they were conversing, Tony and Senior searched for the spare key to Crispin's home.

"Ah ha," Senior exclaimed having located it above the doorframe.

"The cop in me frowns at people who leave spare keys so obviously placed around their homes," Tony remarked, snatching the key from his father's grasp and letting himself into the mansion. "But then again, when you have four or five vacations homes scattered throughout the Americas, why worry about who's doing what and where when you're not around…"

Senior whistled loudly as he took a look at the inside of Crispin's home. It was spectatular, despite the fact that everything was covered in plastic sheeting and dust cloths.

"This looks like the living room from _The Pin,_" Tony quipped.

Senior frowned at his son who threw up his uninjured arm apologetically.

"They just come to me, dad. I can't help it."

Senior continued staring emphatically at Tony.

"Fine," Tony humphed. "I'll keep all future references to myself. Though it won't be nearly as fun for me or as informative for you."

Having reached some semblance of an agreement, father and son spent the next few hours preparing the house for every possible situation. They locked and bolted all sixteen extraneous doorways, leaving only the ones in the front and back available as possible escape routes, and effectively channeling all intruders through the main hallway. They also moved all the furniture to the center of the room and boarded up the windows, save a few specially designed gun ports. Tony, recalling some of his finer moments as a child who had occasionally been left alone in the DiNozzo mansion with only the hired help for company, fastened some pot lids to a string across the second floor balcony, hiding the lids off to the side so they wouldn't be noticed. This way, they would be alerted that someone had entered through the back without actually having one of them guarding said door.

Somewhere between boarding up window five and window six, Tony received a phone call from Gibbs.

"Hold your fire, DiNozzo. We're coming in."

"Any sign of Thompson or his men?" Tony questioned, surprised the mobster's men hadn't arrived sooner.

"They're not far behind. They got pulled over by some scrawny red-haired beanpole who stutters worse than McGee."

_Way to go, Bobby! _Tony thought, fighting hard to not fist-pump the air with enthusiasm.

Tony heard someone clear his throat in the background.

"_After _Fornell cut them off," Gibbs allowed.

Fornell cleared his throat again.

"_and _managed to convince that string bean that it wasn't his fault."

"Well, Toby, I guess that merits a "Thank you," as long as you're not here to take me into custody or make me spend the night in that holding cell that hadn't been cleaned since 1971. It's really that bad down there. You should let the cleaning crew down into the Law Enforcement cells more than once a century…"

"Are we clear, DiNozzo?" Gibbs interrupted before Fornell could snatch the phone and make a retort.

"You're clear, boss," Tony confirmed, taking his place by the window and sliding his gun through the cracks.

He saw the two older men walk quickly toward the house and looked wildly around for any signs of ambush. After Gibbs and Fornell made it through the front door without incident, Tony and his father shoved a large designer's sofa in front of the doorway.

Rage flowed through Gibbs as he caught his first glimpse of Tony's face.

"That's a _little _injured?" Gibbs barked, grabbing Senior by his lapels and shoving him against the wall. "He looks like he's just gone four rounds with Muhammad Ali!"

"I'm fine, boss," Tony clarified, meeting Gibbs' angry stare. Gibbs' steely blue eyes bore into his own but he didn't look away, conveying with his expression more than any words could allow.

"Really," he added after a moment. "It's all superficial. I'll be back to my normal, attractive self within the next few days."

With one final glare in Senior's direction, Gibbs returned his gaze to his agent. "Whacha got, DiNozzo?"

"Other than prolonged exposure to wrinkles?" Gibbs leveled his gaze into a warning glare.

"Well, the house is built in a square pattern. Completely symmetrical. There are two main wings each connected to the main hallway," Tony pointed to the area in which they were standing. "We've bolted all the rooms closed and restricted access to this hallway only. There are alcoves about thirty feet on your right which have enough room to be a sniper's nest. There is another vantage point from the mezzanine, with the staircase over there. Be careful if you're going up though, I've weakened all the boards in the middle. Just another testament to my misspent years at summer camp."

Fornell, who had been standing guard by the front, subtly drew back the curtain. "We've got company."

They crowded around the window, seeing three cars screech to a stop. Four men piled out of each car and spread out into classic SWAT formation. However, the absence of trees in the driveway, or other large structures to hide behind, made the technique less than effective.

Gibbs pulled the spare SIG from his backpack and handed it to DiNozzo along with the three extra magazines.

"Thanks boss," Tony affirmed, palming a magazine into the grip.

Gibbs pulled out the additional weapon, grasping it by the barrel and rested it in Senior's hand weapon while he spoke.

"Don't make me regret this," he warned, releasing the weapon.

"Only one magazine?" Senior questioned.

"Don't miss and you won't have a problem."

Thompson's men had finished spreading out and were now approaching the house in a slow crawl. Fornell fired two shots at the two central men, hitting one in the upper shoulder.

"There's only six of them here," he stated unnecessarily.

"Fornell," Gibbs ordered. "You and Senior take the back. DiNozzo, you and I have the front."

The men scattered with Fornell's shots and sprinted to the far ends of the massive drive to take cover. They began returning fire almost as soon as they were hidden.

A bullet splintered the board above Tony's head. He crouched even lower, so just his eyes were visible above the sill and squeezed off two shot in the man's general direction.

At that very moment, the rapid return of gunfire was heard from the back of the house, alerting Gibbs and DiNozzo that Senior and Fornell had discovered the other half of Thompson's men.

As one of the men stood up slightly to get a better shot at DiNozzo, Gibbs fired. The man screamed in pain and fell backwards, blood spurting from both his shoulder and knee.

"Good shooting, boss," Tony complimented.

Thompson's men were not even in the same league as a cop and Marine sniper and their inexperience began showing very early. They were making themselves more and more obvious as they moved to get a better view of the home and the shots were missing by greater margins. The same shots that had hit the windows were now landing in the drywall next to the door.

Seeing one man run between two larger trees, Tony fired off three more rounds, hitting the goon twice in the shoulder and once in the abdomen.

While Tony's attention had been focused on the other man, Thompson's men decided to make a move to take out the man they had dubbed as the bigger threat. Too late did Tony realize the man he had shot was a distraction and, by the time he had refocused, three of the remaining associates were standing and firing rapidly at Gibbs' window.

The Marine threw himself away from the window but not quickly enough to avoid being grazed by a bullet.

"DiNozzo!" Gibbs called from the far wall, where he quickly tore off a strip of his shirt and wrapped it around the wound.

"I see 'em," Tony replied as he exchanged magazines and shot at the three men. He managed to hit two of them, though he wasn't sure if the wounds were life-threatening or not.

"You okay?"

"I'll live," Gibbs answered, switching his gun to his opposite hand and returning to the window.

"There are two left. One's in that grove of trees, my three o'clock. The other's not far behind, about fifty yards back. I don't have an angle on either."

Gibbs fired directly at the tree one man was hiding behind. When the man instinctively jumped backward, he followed with two shots that were most definitely lethal.

His friend, the final member of this half of Thompson's squad, remained crouched behind a rock out of both Tony and Gibbs' line of fire.

"Jamison," he hissed, hopefully. "You okay?"

No response. His phone buzzed, and he flipped open the device, almost breaking it in the process.

"…yes…got it." He replied before hanging up the device. He took a moment to say a prayer to every entity that was in heaven, apologizing for all his mistakes, before grabbing Jamison's pistol and sprinting toward the house, firing with both hands at the agents.

From inside the house, Tony heard the soft sound of breaking glass over the gunfire. He spun around in time to see a man aiming at the Lead Agent, who was busy exchanging fire at the oncoming man, oblivious to the imminent danger.

"Gibbs!" Tony cried, throwing himself in front of his boss as the intruder squinted down the barrel of his gun and fired.

Four times.

* * *

_Thanks for reading! Please drop me a line and let me know what you think!_


	10. Chapter 10

Gibbs spun around at the sound of his name in time to see DiNozzo crumple limply to the ground in front of him, having taken three rounds to his chest in order to save his boss. One of the goon's shots had gone wide and lodged itself in the wall just inches above Gibbs' head. If DiNozzo hadn't thrown himself in front of his boss, those shots would most definitely have been fatal for the Lead Agent.

Memories flashed through his mind faster than the speed of light, while a cry of rage tore through Gibbs igniting intense feelings of helplessness and failure that the he had not felt in years—not since he'd stood by his family's graves, still leaning heavily on his crutches, only days after having awoken from his coma and just hours after being released from the hospital; not since he'd heard that fatal gunshot and turned to find Kate lying on the ground, eyes staring unseeingly at the sky, a bullet hole in her forehead; not since he heard of Jenny's tragic demise from DiNozzo and made the long flight to California to collect her body; not since he'd stood in the new Director's office, hearing his team receive their new assignments; and now, he was those emotions came flooding back as his agent, his partner, but more than that, his friend—the one he could trust when all bets were off and the odds were stacked heavily against them, the one he'd trusted to lead the team while he was in Mexico, the one with whom he'd had countless cowboy-style dinners and the one who filled endless nights at the office with lighthearted movie references and unceasing chatter—was destined to join the ranks of those who had given their lives to protect others. Without hesitation, Gibbs emptied the remnant of his magazine into the shooter before tossing the empty weapon aside and kneeling beside his agent.

Gibbs heard someone sprint into the room, seconds after his cry broke the temporary silence, but he was too focused on the still man, lying motionless on the ground, to care.

"Is he…" Gibbs heard DiNozzo Senior ask, his voice barely more than a whisper. He spared a moment to look back, noting Senior's pale expression and trembling hands. And he didn't blame the man—mostly since he was feeling the same way.

Senior remained frozen in place, unable to absorb the scene in front of him. His son was lying on the ground, eyes closed, three bullet holes in what must have been one of his favorite OSU shirts, grouped in a tight formation directly over his heart. Gibbs, a man he had grown to despise, was kneeling beside Anthony with a deeply concerned and indescribably fearful expression on his usually emotionless face. DiNozzo remembered the last time he had felt that raw pain: the death of his wife.

Despite what most people believed, Anthony DiNozzo Senior had loved his wife and had not married her for her money as did most people with his wealthy status. His world had completely shattered with her death. He'd thrown himself into his job even more than before, working eighteen to twenty hours a week, trying to outrun the emotional pain he secretly knew he'd never be able to escape. Somewhere, a small voice of reason—Isabella's ghost, he knew—had ensured that Junior had been well taken care of and sent to the finest boarding schools in the country. It had taken him years to grieve the loss of his wife and reopen the lines of communication with his son and he wasn't entirely certain if he'd be able to recover from another death in his immediate family.

"Call an ambulance," Gibbs ordered, breaking Senior out of his reverie. He heard the cell phone whistling through the air and looked up in time to catch the small device. While Senior willed his stiff, unresponsive fingers to dial the number faster, Gibbs returned his gaze to Tony, tearing away the ragged T-shirt in one smooth gesture.

"Usually…buy a girl…dinner first," Gibbs glanced upwards, his eyes landing on Tony's taught and pale face. Relief flooded his system when he saw DiNozzo's green eyes staring directly back.

The Lead Agent did not respond to the quip but stared in shock at what he found—or more aptly, what he didn't find—under Tony's shirt.

There was no blood, no open wounds. Though the three bullets were tightly grouped over Tony's heart, they were lodged in what looked like…an old-fashioned oven door?

"Eastwood…._Fistfulla Dollars_…" Tony explained in response to Gibbs' questioning gaze, his phrases punctuated by shallow, uneven gasps. "Greatest spaghetti western…of the bunch...Copied by…Marty McFly in…_Back to the Future III_…"

It had been a last minute idea, a preventative measure he was hoping he wouldn't need, but since neither he nor his father had brought a bulletproof vest with them, the makeshift Kevlar would have to suffice. It was a good thing he'd seen all those _MacGyver_ episodes as a teenager or else he might have been speaking to St. Peter instead of lying on the floor, floundering for fresh air like a fish out of water. Speaking of which: when, exactly, had just breathing become to terribly difficult? It was a battle just to keep his ribcage steady and manage the raging fire that raced up and down his side with every breath.

He took a moment to just breathe, focusing on gathering enough air for a coherent thought before adding, "Good thing…Crispy's a fan…of the classics."

Gibbs' worry quickly shifted from the possibility of Tony bleeding out before an ambulance arrived to the imminent danger of other injuries from being shot in a facsimile of a vest: punctured lung, ruptured spleen, massive internal bleeding. It did not escape his notice that Tony was struggling for air and even his shallowest breaths were ragged and uneven.

"Just focus on breathing, Tony and try to move those broken ribs. We don't need to add a punctured lung to your other _miscellaneous _injuries," Gibbs suggested with a pointed glance at Senior.

"Will do…boss," Tony conceded while attempting to bring his breathing under control.

Senior knelt beside his son, unceremoniously forcing Gibbs out of the way.

"Junior! Are you all right?" he shouted, bending over his son.

"Peachy…dad…"

"Don't lie to me, Junior. You may be able to pull off that crap with your coworkers, but I am your father," Senior continued at a very loud pitch.

"Shot, dad…not deaf…Think you could…keep it down?"

"Sorry," Senior responded, quickly lowering his voice.

With a loud groan, Tony raised himself onto his elbows, wincing as he jarred his ribs.

"What the hell are you doing?"

"Getting up," Tony snapped. "What's it look like?"

"I don't think so!" Senior placed his hand on Tony's shoulder and attempted to force his son back to the ground. Tony stubbornly resisted his father's gesture and remained on his elbows, searching the room for Gibbs' new position.

"Boss," Tony pleaded, putting forth an incredible effort to keep the pauses out of his speech, "it's just the ribs…I'll be fine."

"Anthony David DiNozzo, Junior!" Senior exclaimed before Gibbs could answer. "As your father, I am ordering you to stay put until the ambulance arrives to take you to the hospital."

"Ambulance?" Tony questioned, panic flashing across his face. "No need, boss."

"What are you talking about, Junior?" DiNozzo Senior exclaimed. "Of course you need an ambulance! You just got shot!"

"Technically, no," Tony retorted. "See the vest?"

"I agree with your dad," Gibbs offered from his position behind Senior.

"You what?" Tony asked, his mouth dropping open, at the same time Senior questioned "You do?"

"Your father is right," Gibbs repeated. Senior grinned widely, his eyes thanking Gibbs for agreeing with him, even if it was only for Tony's benefit.

"For once," Gibbs added, seeking immense pleasure from the speed at which the smile dropped off Senior's face. "You've been through a hell of a weekend, Tony. It won't hurt you to have you looked over by a professional to assure nothing is seriously wrong with you."

"Gibbs…" Tony scowled but one look at the determined faces looking down at him told him it would be pointless to argue.

With a deep sigh and a sour expression, he carefully lowered himself back to the ground.

"I liked it better when the two of you didn't get along," he muttered, glaring sourly at the two men. He was still for a moment, looking at the ceiling before beginning to loosen the straps and the duct tape that were keeping the door attached.

Gibbs reached over and laid one of his hands on Tony's own, preventing the younger man from removing the door. "Keep it there," he advised. "You may have punctured a lung and the compression will keep it under control until you can get it checked out."

"Boss…I'm no Ducky but I _know_…I do not have a punctured lung."

"When did this become a debate, DiNozzo?" Gibbs asked, his eyes glinting mischievously as he anticipated the response.

"Keeping the vest on, boss," Tony replied obediently, the frown on his face deepening as he heard the sirens in the background.

There was a whirl of activity as the paramedics burst into the room and headed immediately for Tony's position. Despite the Italian's best efforts to persuade them otherwise, they insisted on taking him to the hospital to have all his injuries looked at professionally.

Tony insisted he could walk to the ambulance on his own two feet, but one particularly athletic, very muscular EMT planted himself directly between Tony and the door. Tony looked back at his boss, his eyes begging his boss to intervene on his behalf. Gibbs stared impassively at his agent, raising one eyebrow in a challenge for Tony to take on the EMT without help.

Tony threw up his hands in surrender and allowed himself to be wheeled out of the house, Senior following closely behind, his hands never leaving the gurney's railing.

"Jethro," Fornell called, diverting the Marine's attention from his agent who was fixing all hospital personnel with his best impression of Gibbs' glare. Gibbs glanced at the head EMT who returned the nod in agreement that he would wait for him.

"One of Thompson's men made it through the firefight," Fornell reported, half-dragging the goon into the room. "He's willing to testify in hopes of receiving a deal. Combine that with the intel the CIA's gathered on Thompson and DiNozzo's statement and Thompson should be going away for a very long time."

"I'm glad to hear that Tobias," Gibbs replied, heading for the back of the ambulance. "Have your men secure the scene. NCIS will want a copy of everything you uncover for our case file."

"Jethro," Fornell hesitated. "There's one other thing..."

"You're going to have to take DiNozzo Senior into custody until you can get the entire situation worked out? I know, Tobias."

Fornell paused for a moment to watch Senior order the EMTs to make his son more comfortable.

"I guess it can wait until DiNozzo's been cleared at the hospital. You'll keep an eye on him?"

"I'll shoot him myself if he tries to leave," Gibbs promised.

* * *

"Sir, you _cannot _ just waltz out of here as you see fit! This hospital is a place of business, where order reigns and patients do what they're told!" An impatient, raised voice floated out of one of the rooms. Gibbs stopped on the way back from the cafeteria where he had purchased the weakest and most watered down coffee he had ever tasted.

Other than himself, Gibbs knew only one other person who could enrage hospital staff like that.

The Lead Agent meandered into the room, grinning at the sight that greeted him.

Tony was sitting on the examining table wearing a set of scrubs that he was charmed a nurse into procuring for him so he didn't have to wear the gaping hospital gown. He was surrounded by two pretty nurses, both of whom had clearly had all they were going to take of Tony's repeated "I'm fine's" and pleadings to be released.

"Boss. You come to spring me?" Tony asked hopefully.

"DiNozzo, would you let the doctors do their job? You're not helping anyone out by refusing to cooperate."

"There's nothing wrong with me. I'm—"

"I so swear, Tony. If I hear the words _I'm _ and _fine _come out of your mouth one more time, you will be breaking in Probies from now until retirement."

"—anxiously awaiting the nurses to pull out more instruments for another _fun _round of poking and prodding," Tony amended, leaning resignedly against the far wall while the nurses began taking more vitals and blood work.

"That's better. Now, where's your father?"

"Filling out the paperwork. He could probably use some help, boss. The last time he was here was when I fell out of tree when I was eight and fractured my arm—it's been a while."

"There's time for that later. Right now, we're focusing on getting you examined without the doctors pulling out the restraints."

Tony glowered at his boss, but grudgingly allowed the nurses to finish their examination. The doctor walked in at the exact moment the nurses began packing up their equipment.

"Hello, I am Doctor Selleck."

"_Tom _Selleck?" Tony questioned, cocking his head to one side.

"Yup, just like the actor," the young man enthused. "Actually, I go by my middle name, Geoffrey, to avoid confusion. Once my patients hear my real name, I hardly manage to escape from an examination room in less than a half hour since most choose to regal me with vivid descriptions of their childhood spent in front of the television—"

"I'm sorry, doc," Tony interrupted, becoming the exception to the rule, "but I've actually got somewhere to be. Can we make this quick?"

Tony saw the doctor shoot a questioning glance towards Gibbs. "He can stay; if you kick him out, he'll just corner you in a dark alley until you tell him what you're about to share with me. Trust me—it's easier this way."

Dr. Selleck gulped audibly and glanced warily at the Lead Agent. "Well, in that case, let us begin." He switched on the X-ray lamp and immediately put the films. "There is no damage to the ulna, the radius, or the humerus, but I am recommending an MRI and a sling to be worn until the shoulder can be examined by a specialist. There is great inflammation and bruising of the joint which will be incredibly sore and stiff for the next few days. A temporary regimen of ibuprofen should suffice."

He paused while he swapped the shoulder X-rays with ones of Tony's chest.

"You have sustained anterior fractures of the left fifth, sixth, and seventh ribs with no posterior damage. At one time, long before I became a physician, we used to treat injuries of this sort with a wrapping called a rib belt, but it was proven to do more damage then to help the bones heal properly. Now, we just prescribe NSAIDs or, in rare cases, prescription pain medication if the pain is becoming unmanageable. You will need to take it easy at work for a few weeks until the ribs begin to heal. After that, you may ease back into the field with light compression around the torso if needed. Debby here will go over the standard procedures with you and teach you to use the incentive spirometer once I leave.

"Now for the rest of your injuries. There was severe bruising across your entire torso and abdomen but there are no signs of internal bleeding. If you see blood in your urine though, you need to get yourself to the emergency room STAT since that is a sign of badly contused kidney. There were signs of a slight concussion, but nothing too severe. It won't even merit an overnight observational stay. If you develop sensitivity to light or your headache increases, call the primary physician a call."

"Does all that mean I'm free to go?" Tony questioned, surprising Doctor Selleck with his presumed indifference.

"Technically, yes. But you should have someone look after you for the next twenty-four hours just in case."

"Don't worry," DiNozzo Senior said, waltzing into the room at that very moment, followed closely by Fornell. "He won't leave my sight."

"Are you sure, dad? You're not the type to wait around longer than necessary."

"Junior, after all you did for me, I think I can rearrange my schedule to look after you for a few days."

Tony's smile fell slightly at his father's words, but within seconds, he caught it and widened it even more to compensate for the hurt he was feeling. After all they had been through, he was still just a duty to his father. Why had he thought any different? Well, he had been hoping his father's more frequent visits meant the older man was changing his ways…apparently, he was still wrong.

Senior saw the smile drop off Tony's face and reconsidered what he had just said.

"That wasn't what I meant, Junior. I was trying to lighten the situation with a glib remark—it always seems to work for you. Really, though—it is no trouble at all. You left D.C. on my phone call, flew up to New York, helped me through a particularly tight spot, and saved my life more than once. I owe you everything. Plus, it'll give us some more time to talk…I mean, if you still want to. You did ask yesterday for a serious heart-to-heart," Senior continued, trying to let Tony know that staying for a few days would be a truly welcome change of pace and it would hopefully go a long way to mend the relationship between the two of them.

Tony stared at his father uncertainly for a moment, looking for any signs of dishonesty. After a long moment, he nodded slowly.

"Yeah, a father-son talk would be nice. I'd like that alot."

"Me too, son," Senior replied. "Me too."

* * *

Debby came a few moments after Doctor Selleck left, and proceeded to explain to Tony, Senior and Gibbs how the spirometer worked and the warning signs of internal bleeding.

"You've been through this before?" she asked after a few minutes, seeing the men nod after her every sentence and not ask any questions. From her vast experiences as a nurse, Debby knew they weren't really listening to her but were too polite to ask her to hurry up.

"I'm a cop," Tony said. "It comes with the territory."

"Okay then," she continued at a much more rapid pace and within the next minute, she had signed the last form.

There was a soft knock on the door and Bobby Jenkins poked his head into the room.

"How are you doing, Tony?"

"Ready to get outta here!" DiNozzo responded, grabbing his clothes off the table next to him and hopping off the examination table.

"I brought you these," Bobby said, handing the NCIS agent a Ziploc bag. "We found these at Thompson's house. Thought you might want them back. I know it's kinda a violation of the chain of evidence, but you won't tell anyone will you?"

Tony shook his head, digging eagerly into the Ziploc and pulling out his phone, badge, wallet and SIG. "Are you kidding me, Bobby? This is my favorite wallet; it took me weeks to get the leather broken in! I don't care if you had to steal it from the chief's office yourself—my lips are sealed."

There was a moment of uncomfortable silence in the room before Bobby spoke up again. "The guy Fornell caught is chirping like a canary: told us about the house, the car crash, everything, how he and his friend were responsible for the theft of Atlas. We searched the home thoroughly and have enough evidence to put Thompson away for a long time."

"What about my father?"

"I can answer that one," Fornell interrupted. "The CIA swept in once Vance, David and McGee found Atlas and, given the mounting evidence against the Grady cartel, they have removed all DiNozzo's from the Most Wanted List."

He turned to Senior. "They are still expecting you to write a full deposition and testify against Thompson and his men when they finally go to trial."

"I think I can manage," Senior nodded.

Seeing Fornell had nothing else to say, Bobby cleared his throat. "Do you think Tony and I could have a minute?"

"Sure," Gibbs said, making his first contribution to the conversation in the last few minutes. Bobby, who clearly had forgotten the older man was even there, jumped slightly.

"Thank you, Agent Gibbs, Mr. DiNozzo, and…FBI guy…" he called as the men left the room.

"What's up, Bobby?" Tony asked as the door slammed shut.

"I wanted to thank you again for what you did for me—back in boarding school. What you did for me was absolutely incredible and I know I'll never be able to repay you for it. But it still means a lot to me, even after all these years. If you _ever_ need anything, don't hesitate to give ol' Bobby Jenkins a call. I'd drive down to D.C. in a heartbeat, even though I've never been there before and don't know the way…"

Tony slung his good arm over Bobby's shoulder and headed for the door. "Bobby, we've been over this. You don't owe me anything. I'd've done it for anyone in your position."

"Yeah, but you didn't. You helped me out, Tony, and I'll never be able to repay the favor."

"Bobby. We're square. Have been for years. If it makes you feel better, remember, you didn't give me a speeding ticket, and I know how expensive tickets are these days...I owe _you_ for that one."

"You don't owe me anything, Tony. Ever." Bobby stated firmly, opening the door for his injured friend.

Tony gave his friend a warm smile. "Then we're square. The next time you're looking for a vacation, gimme a call. D.C.'s a helluva lot of fun in the springtime."

"I'll do that," Bobby grinned at the prospect of a vacation with Tony DiNozzo which would most likely resemble an elaborate trip to Panama City. He held out his hand and the two boarding school friends shook.

"Until the spring," Tony promised.

"I can't wait," Bobby said before walking away.

"What was that all about?" Senior questioned after Bobby was out of earshot.

"Nothing. It's in the past," Tony replied, shifted uncomfortably under Senior's sharp stare before elaborating.

"He was an easy mark for bullies at boarding school. This one guy, Mark Henderson, beat him up so badly he was in the hospital for the weekend. So, I gave Mark a taste of his own medicine. Yeah, he was the Senator's kid, but so what? That makes it okay for him to abuse other kids? I couldn't stand by while he hurt Bobby again."

"What happened?" Gibbs asked, pride swelling at his chest at the thought of a younger DiNozzo standing up to those who thought they had the okay to terrorize everyone in school.

"We were brought to the headmaster and it was my word against Mark's. I know he suspected otherwise but the Senator flew into town and made a _substantial donation _that somehow made it okay for his son to pick on the other kids. He even threatened to take away Bobby's scholarship if he ever told the truth. So Mark stayed and I got expelled," Tony shrugged. "Didn't really like that school anyway. The girls were as ugly as all get out."

"The headmaster told me you started that fight after some girl left you for Mark," Senior recalled. "Why didn't you tell me otherwise?"

"Didn't think you'd listen. I knew how close you and the headmaster were at the time. There was no way you were going to believe me over him."

Senior looked genuinely hurt that such an important detail in his son's life had been kept from him.

"Oh come on, dad. You can't honestly say you would have believed me."

Senior didn't respond, which told Tony all he needed to know.

"I didn't think so."

Senior opened his mouth to speak but Tony cut him off.

"It's okay dad. I did what I knew was right and I owned up to the consequences. I have no qualms about what I did."

Senior was silent for another moment before gently pulling Tony into a bear hug. "That may have been the way things were in the past, but they are different now. For as long as I'm on this earth, I promise never to doubt you again."

Tony was shocked by his father's public show of affection but recovered quickly and hesitantly wrapped his good arm around his father.

Their Hallmark moment was interrupted by a loud ringing.

Tony freed himself from his father's embrace and pulled out his phone. "It's Crispy," Tony announced with a frown. "Wonder what he wants?"

He exaggeratedly snapped open the phone and lifted it to his ear.

"Crispy!" he exclaimed into the receiver. "How are you? Still living high on the hog with Uncle Clive's money?"

"Anthony," Crispin stated curtly, his voice as icy as the Potomac in the winter. "I hear someone broke into my house and destroyed the place."

"And you thought of me? Crispy, I'm touched," Tony replied, only half-listening to Crispin's response, as he motioned toward the exit. Gibbs, Fornell and Senior picked up on the intention and began walking towards the parking lot.

"Someone broke your authentic wood-burning stove from the Civil War valued at almost $2000? You don't say…"

* * *

_Thanks for reading! Please drop me a line and let me know what you think!_


	11. Chapter 11

_Takes place before "Broken Arrow"._

* * *

"TONNNYYYY!" Abby Scuito sprinted toward her friend who was exiting the elevator at NCIS headquarters.

"No, Abby! Please! Don't!" But Tony's pleads went unheard. Abby crashed into the Senior Field Agent and wrapped him in a tight hug.

"You're killing him, Abby." Gibbs said as he exited the elevator, intervening on the red-faced DiNozzo's behalf. He side-stepped the entwined pair and headed toward his desk where he dropped his gun in his desk drawer and started reviewing the files on his desk.

"Oh. Sorry," the Goth apologized, pulling away from Tony. "I'm just SO glad you're back! This place has been so lonely! McGee and Ziva were positively lost without you!"

"Abby, I was only gone one weekend."

"You were gone over forty-eight hours, mister! That's a long time to go without seeing you in my book."

She looked around Tony to see Senior hovering just out of arm's reach. "Senior!" she cried, swerving around Tony and moving toward Senior with arms wide open. The elder DiNozzo stepped slightly backwards with his hands up, not wanting to have his organs pancaked—he had enough trouble keeping them healthy in his advanced age as it was...

Abby paused and cocked her head in confusion. After a moment, she offered her hand. Senior gently, and almost reverently, grasped it and kissed it. Abby smiled at DiNozzo Senior before returning her attention to Tony.

"So, after you finish typing up your report, I was thinking you'd come over to my place—Ziva offered to cook dinner and we could look after you for a while until you're back up to snuff."

"What is snuff?" Ziva asked, entering the squad room from the other elevator.

"Well, it's a type of tobacco," Tony began.

"Why would you want to be compared to a brand of tobacco?"

"In that particular idiom, it means 'normal'…" Tony tried to explain, but Ziva still looked confused.

"Never mind," he waved his head dismissively and sat down at his desk.

"Regardless of your questionable American idioms, I am glad you are back."

"Thank you Ziva. It's nice to see you too."

"Miss David, it is, once again, an honor," Senior cut in, gently kissing Ziva's hand as well.

"Tony," Ziva nodded courteously. "How long are you going to be in town?"

"Well, I thought I'd stick around until Junior is fully healed, so maybe a week?"

A loud thudding noise came from the MTAC stairs and the entire squad room turned to see McGee racing down the stairs.

"Don't trip, McClumsy!" Tony shouted encouringly.

McGee made a face at the Senior Field Agent and continued down the stairs a bit more slowly. "Pardon me for being excited to have you back."

"You are pardoned…whatever that means," Tony responded.

After managing to make it down the stairs without tripping, McGee stopped in front of Tony's desk and extended his hand. "I'm glad you made it back in one piece." He lowered his voice so his boss couldn't hear. "Gibbs has been absolutely insufferable since you left—yelling at everyone and throwing stuff around…"

"Trust me. It's good to be back in Washington, D.C. There are some craaaazy people on Long Island," Tony quipped before grabbing McGee's hand and shaking it.

McGee continued to his desk and began typing madly at the computer. Tony glanced around the squad room and saw everyone was busy working. Sometime between her arrival and McGee's, the Israeli had begun a heated telephone conversation in a foreign language that Tony couldn't even begin to guess, Gibbs was conversing with Abby who was standing directly in front of the Lead Agent's desk, and even his father had left to follow around a twenty-something, female Probie to the fax machine.

Tony slipped his arm slightly out of the sling in order to begin typing his report, but was startled by someone clearing his throat very loudly. He looked up to see Gibbs' glaring at him around Abby who was continuing to babble about food or something of that ilk. Tony pointed at the keyboard with his good arm but Gibbs shook his head and looked pointedly at the sling.

Tony frowned at his boss, slipped his arm back into the sling, and began pecking at the keyboard with one hand.

"Anthony! You've returned!" Ducky and Palmer rounded the bullpen and came over to greet Tony.

"It's so cool that your dad was a spy!" Palmer began, unabashedly. "I mean, it must run in the family, right? That's why you're so good at those undercover missions!"

"I do not believe this is the time for that discussion, Mr. Palmer," Ducky reprimanded his young assistant.

"Sorry. It's just, it's not often you find you know someone who is a real James Bond."

"I wasn't really a James Bond since I'm only technically an informant," Senior explained, having returned after being continually ignored by the pretty agent. "But I still got to use some handy gadgets like the ones Q made, those exactly which ones, I am not allowed to tell you."

"I got it, sir!" Palmer exclaimed, almost reverently. "I promise never to ask about the super secret details of your missions ever again."

"Well, this has been fun," Tony spoke up. "But I would like to finish my report and go home, where I plan on sleeping _alone_—unusual I know, but I am supposed to refrain from all strenuous physical activity for at least two weeks or until the broken ribs heal—watching a _lot _of television and generally enjoying the relaxing weekend I never got to have."

Abby shot a pointed look in Gibbs' direction. The Lead Agent shrugged slightly and looked happy not speaking until Abby intensified her gaze and signed something with her hands.

"What?" Tony asked since he hated to be left out of the loop.

"Your report can wait, DiNozzo. Right now, we're all going to Abby's house, no arguing. Then you're coming over to my house, at least for the first night so I know you won't stop breathing in the middle of the night."

"I have that covered," Senior replied before Tony had a chance to. "I mean, if it's okay with Junior, I was going to stay at his house and help out for this week."

Gibbs got up from his desk and went to stand in front of Senior until they were almost nose to nose. They stood like that for a long moment, Gibbs staring—almost glaring—directly at Senior, and the elder DiNozzo returning the stare without looking away or backing up.

"Okay, but I will be over each evening and if he looks even a fraction worse than the day before…" Gibbs trailed off leaving his threat unfinished.

"You'll _what_?" Senior sneered, putting his face even closer to Gibbs'.

"Trust me, _Tony_. You don't want to know," Gibbs half-smiled and headed back toward the elevator.

"Grab your gear! We've got a dinner to go to!"

Tony grabbed his favorite jacket from the back of his chair before rushing to meet everyone at the elevator.

"On it, boss!"

* * *

Sometime in the night, Tony woke to the pounding of his ribcage, shoulder, elbow and basically every body part known to man—maybe a few unknown ones as well. Not wanting to take the prescription ones that were much stronger than regular ibuprofen and tended to cause him to act strangely, he wandered out to his kitchen and rummaged through the cabinet for some over-the-counter painkillers. He downed the pills and sat at the kitchen table, nursing a glass of water and waiting for the meds to kick in.

"What are you doing up, Junior?" Tony looked up in surprise, having forgotten his father was staying at his place.

"Couldn't sleep," Tony answered glibly.

"Me either." Senior grabbed another glass from the cabinet, filled it from the tap and took the seat across from his son. The two sat in silence for a long while. Senior was clearly contemplating speaking, since his mouth kept opening and closing without any words being spoken.

"What do you want to say, dad?" Tony finally asked, slightly annoyed with his father's robot-like actions.

"Why didn't you ever tell me you were sick, son?" Senior spoke quickly and almost without pauses between his words.

Tony almost laughed out loud at the question but took a moment to determine whether his father was serious. There was no twitching of the corners of his mouth, no flittering glances left and right, no jittery motions and no nervous hand through the hair; no, his father looked at him with an unblinking, almost pleading, stare that begged a honest answer.

"Well, dad," Tony began slowly. "I didn't know you cared. Frankly, after you sent me off to those boarding schools and left me at a hotel in Maui, I was sure I was just a duty to you. I knew you never cared about my becoming a cop and that I went to college on an athletic scholarship. It was too hard for me to keep hoping that you cared about how I actually was doing, so I did what I had to do in order to move on with my life."

Senior stared at his son in shock. "Son, there is quite a lot we need to talk about then, if that's how you feel. I can tell you that I never stopped loving you. Your mother was the best thing that happened to me, and when she died, I was completely lost. I was spinning in circles with no foreseeable way out. Every time I looked at you, I saw her: her loving smile, her eyes that knew how to get to the heart of the matter without having to speak a word, her love of athletics and her love of music, especially jazz. In hindsight, it was the wrong move to make, but it was the only one I knew at the moment. I wasn't being a good father for you in my funk, so I sent you off to boarding school and threw myself into work, hoping that if I avoided all thoughts of your mother, I might be able to get over it faster. It didn't happen. I was running from the truth…and from my son. Eventually, you stopped calling me with your accomplishments at school, and Maria stopped sending letters. While it broke my heart, I thought you were better off without me."

Senior reached his hand across the table and rested his on top of Tony's. "I love you Junior. Always have. I won't push the relationship since you seem to be doing fine without it, but I would really love the chance to get to know you better. You could come stay in Long Island during your time off…Your room is still decorated with the Louis XV theme, but you could paint it over. And your piano's still in the Great Room if you remember how to play."

"I haven't played since Mom died. Funny, they don't really care about those things at the Military Academy." But Tony's words were spoken without the malice that usually laced his conversation with people he could care less about. He was hesitant to believe that his father actually cared about him, but the elder DiNozzo wasn't showing any signs of lying. Tony had been an investigator long enough to know, without a shadow of a doubt, that Senior was speaking from the heart.

"Well, I'm sure you could pick it up again, Junior. It's like riding a bike, right?"

"I don't know dad…I can't just forget thirty-some years of neglect 'cause you finally decided we should be better friends."

Senior looked genuinely hurt at his son's implications. "You never had to be worried that I didn't care and you don't ever have to worry about it in the future. I had to leave you in Maui because I was being followed by two angry goons related to the Davies case I was working on at the time. I didn't want to put you in danger, Anthony: you meant far too much to me. I could never tell you what I was doing due to the restrictions put on me by Hendricks and his Merry Men. Your mother suspected, but I was never able to tell her either. Yet, she stood by me, through thick and thin, raising you to be the most caring, most responsible man she could.

"You should have told me you were sick. I would have come from whatever corner of the world I was in to be here for you. Remember when you broke your arm after you fell out of that tree trying to peek into Sally Harkin's window? I had to leave a business meeting in order to take you to the doctor—"

"And you hated every minute of it," Tony interrupted. "You stood in the corner and frowned at every word the doctor said."

"I may have hated it at the moment, but it was the most important decision I ever made to place my family before my work. You can always get another job, but you can't swap families when you are tired of the one you were given. You do what you have to for family, no regrets."

"I…I…" Tony didn't quite know what to say. The image of his father that he had cultivated as a youth—the strong, uncaring man who sent his wife and son just enough money to make due at the end of every month and only visited occasionally—was fading away and being replaced by a confused, misunderstood man who honestly thought he was doing the right thing. Tony looked critically at the man sitting across from him, noticing for the first time the deep wrinkles lining his eyes and the way he was sagging deeply into his hand which appeared to be the only thing keeping him from melting into the table.

The words were sitting on the tip of his tongue. They had felt so wrong to say last January, but seemed so incredibly appropriate right now. They would be what his dad needed to hear, but now, Tony would be able to say it without any regrets.

"I love you dad." Senior looked up in surprise. He continued staring at his son for a long moment before getting up and taking the chair next to Tony. He enclosed his son in a gentle hug which Tony returned without hesitation.

"I love you too son. You mean more to me than the entire world. If you're still willing, I'd like to make this work. I was given a second chance and I'm going to do my best to not screw this one up."

Something wet was forming behind Tony's eyes. Wait! He wasn't about to _cry _was he? He hadn't cried in years, not since…well, Jenny's death probably. Maybe, once, while Ziva was considered dead, for less than thirty seconds…but, in his defense, those had been tears of anger over the everyone-appearing-to-forget-that-Ziva-was-missing situation and had resulted in a prolonged session with a punching bag at the NCIS gym to ward off the overwhelming feeling of helplessness stemming from his inability to protect his partner…not that he'd ever admit that to anyone. Currently, he was fighting hard just to keep the tears at bay. Dammit! Didn't his father know this was what he had wanted his entire life? All he wanted was his biological family to appreciate what he had become, even though he hadn't gone into the family business. He would rather have had a slightly out-of-it father present instead of no one at all. They could have grieved his mother's death together, an experience that would have probably brought the two of them closer than before. Instead, Tony had locked his feelings away and started to hide behind that mask that revealed absolutely nothing about his true emotions. Things worked better that way: you don't care, you don't get hurt. When you start caring, you move on to bigger and better things. That was how he had operated until he had met Gibbs and moved to NCIS. He'd been shown a true family—one who cared about how he felt and treated him as an equal. And for that, he owed Gibbs everything.

On the other side of the hug, Senior was also fighting tears. He had never meant to hurt Tony. He had wanted, more than anything, to give his son a better life. One he knew he himself would never have been able to give little Anthony. So he had left, sent presents, and taken his son on wild vacations that were beneficial for both of them. He had honestly thought that was what Tony needed and any more exposure to his father would only cause problems for the DiNozzo heir. He swiped the falling tears away and pulled out of the embrace.

"I've got something for you, Junior. This was your present I had airmailed, not knowing Thompson had slipped Atlas in it." Senior extracted a small item from his robe pocket. "I was going to wait until later but now seems like a good time."

"Please tell me it's not another power sander, dad, or your little black book that you felt like keeping until now and giving to me for some unknown reason." Tony began gently pulling on the wrapping paper.

"Nothing like that, Junior. I think you may actually enjoy this one." Tony pulled off the last piece of tape and extracted a small book, knowing immediately what it was.

"Mom's journal…Dad, you should keep this."

"No, no, Junior. I think it's best if you had it. She loved you more than anything. In fact, she wrote in this book once a week for the first few years of your life. She once said they were a series of letters to you that she was planning to give you on your wedding day. Always prepared, she was…Anyway, I know she would have wanted you to have it."

"I don't know what to say, dad. This means a lot to me." Tony gently laid his mother's journal aside and hugged his father again. The two remained in this embrace much longer, both trying to make up for thirty years of miscommunications and misunderstandings.

Senior pulled out the hug again after hearing Tony's stomach rumble loudly.

"Why don't you go upstairs and get cleaned up and I'll make us some breakfast? I can still make Nonna's eggs, if you still like her recipe."

Tony turned away slightly so his father couldn't see the tears of joy and acceptance that were once again forming behind his eyes. "I'd like that, dad. You know I'm a sucker for Nonna's eggs…even if they are blue."

"Okay. I'll get started on them. You be careful in the shower with those ribs, you hear. Gibbs'll kill me if something happens to you!"

"I know dad. Believe me, I know."

Tony headed back towards the master bedroom but paused just before exiting the room.

"Dad, do you think you could stop calling me Junior, especially at work? It's a little too—"

"_Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade? _I know. But since I don't resemble Connery in the least and, no offense, but you don't look a whole lot like Harrison Ford, I thought you wouldn't mind it," Senior grinned. He paused before continuing more seriously. "But, if you really don't like it, I can call you Tony…"

Tony was standing in the doorway, his mouth somewhere between his knees and the floor. _Did his dad just make an honest-to-goodness movie reference? Couldn't be…_

"Who do you think got your mother into movies? It wasn't those stuffy Paddington's! They wouldn't go near a movie theater even if it was the only safe house in town during a nuclear explosion."

Tony continued staring at his father in shock, unable to find the words to express his thoughts.

Senior ignored his son and began searching for ingredients to make breakfast. He looked into the refrigerator and frowned. There was practically nothing on the shelves save a carton of eggs, a half-gallon of milk, and a few assorted fruits and vegetables. He shook the four remaining eggs and was relieved to discover they were still good. He grabbed a few other ingredients, taking the time to discard the green-grey bread, and began searching the cabinets which were equally empty.

"I've seen your movie collection, Junior," he continued, knowing his son hadn't left yet. "It's pretty impressive. Mine is bigger, of course, the entire bookcase in the Great Room, but I've had more time to collect than you. I have no doubt that by the time you get to be my age, you'll have _at least _that many, if not more."

Senior stopped working long enough to see Tony _still_ standing in the doorway, a shell-shocked look on his face. "Yes, I like movies too. I'd bet if we sat down, there's quite a few things we have in common."

He paused for a moment, allowing Tony to say something if he wished. His son didn't.

"You'd better get going, Jun—Tony. Or the eggs are going to be done before you get out of the shower."

Tony nodded wordlessly and left the room. He placed his mother's journal next to his bedside for later reading. He sat down on the bed and let the last half-hour of conversation wash over him. A smile broke over his face, brightening the room by a few Watts.

Sure, his and his father's relationship was far from the one the Brady boys shared with their father or, in reality, the one McLucky shared with his.

But, if his father was willing to give it a shot, so was he.

* * *

_How is it possible that I have finished yet another story? Wasn't I just writing _Things Are Seldom What They Seem? _It can't be! _

_Anyway, this is the end of _Revelations._ Hopefully you enjoyed the final chapter, even though "Broken Arrow" stole some of my thunder with the incredibly sweet Junior/Senior moment. That photograph was absolutely amazing…_

_You guys have been absolutely amazing with your reviews, story alerts and favorites. I can't tell you how encouraging it is to know that your writings are being enjoyed. I especially want to thank everyone who took time to review—they really _do _mean a lot to me; I read and appreciate every word!_

_I have an idea for another story but will need to pre-write it before posting even the first chapter. So, it might be a while before you hear from me again...but you can liken me to Trent Kort, if you wish: I'll keep showing up when you least expect it (though I promise never to blow up Tony's car. Pinky swear.)_

_Thanks again for your incredible support! I'd love to hear what you think of the ending!_

_Until the next story,_

_usa123_

_Postscript: If anyone has real experience with either law enforcement or US Marshalls, could you please send me a P.M.? I would love to talk to you about some ideas that may present themselves in my next story. Thanks!_


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